The Mysteries of the Past, My Love
by Lady Charity
Summary: An eccentric police constable roams to London to investigate the case of Sweeney Todd that took place ten years ago. Now losing himself into the whirling mysteries of the demon barber, he wanted nothing more than to get out. SweeneyToddSleepyHollow x-over
1. The Constable's Arrival

**This is kind of a crossover between Sweeney Todd and Sleepy Hollow. You have been warned.**

London wasn't the first place that the constable would've chosen to visit. The gloomy thick air suffocated him and the nippy cold was as irksome as a fly. Its bleak atmosphere rivaled Sleepy Hollow's, which isn't an easy feat. The constable trotted nervously on the cobblestone sidewalks, clutching his bags of possessions protectively. The wind whistled a haunting tune that sent cold tremors down his spine.

The constable abruptly froze in front of a certain run-down building. The wood was nibbled away by cockroaches and the glass windows were scratched by unknown ghosts. Just the mere sight of it made the wind's tune grow more menacing, the air more frigid, the sky darker. The constable's dark eyes glanced at the sign made of gold, peeling letters, reading "Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pies."

The constable tentatively peered through the dust-encrusted windows. The place hadn't been inhabited for about ten years, from what he heard. There was still leftover gray dough rotting away in the bowl of ashy flour. The scent of rotting meat wafted in his nose and made him shudder with distaste. The whole scenery appeared fuzzy since there was several inches of feathery dust on everything.

At that moment, the constable's guts seemed to wring in anxiety, like the hand of fear clenching his insides. A cold sensation gripped onto his entire body, like being dosed in ice. It felt as if a familiar nightmare had flitted through the constable's mind, all the horrors of the world intertwined together and presenting itself in a deserted pie shop. For meager seconds, the blobs of shadows morphed into undefined figures that seemed to peel of the walls and stagger across the dark rooms, as if the demon barber still lingered. The constable's eyes widened and his hands automatically reached for his bag of brass binoculars to scrutinize it, but the mysterious shadows already drifted away, leaving the air even colder and more unfathomable.

"Do you want t' buy i'?"

The constable gasped and whirled around. He was face-to-face with a silhouette of a thin stranger. A dog-eared hat obscured his petite face, and a large overcoat was draped over his shoulders, overwhelming him. The constable cleared his throat and regained his posture.

"No, I was merely examining the area. I am a police constable from New York and was sent here to investigate the mystery of Sweeney Todd, the demon barber on Fleet Street," the constable replied professionally.

At the mere sound of the name 'Sweeney Todd', the stranger shuddered.

"Do you own this building?" asked the constable.

The stranger chuckled gravely. "I wouldn't own i' even if meant gaining all the riches of the world. Rumors floatin' around 'ere about this place. People say it's 'aunted."

"Haunted..." repeated the constable nervously. The word felt rough on his tongue, sending his brain warning signals immediately. He had enough of haunted rubbish, thank you very much.

"I don't blame 'em for thinking i'. 'Ave you ever 'eard the real stories, Mr. Constable? Not the ones fabrica'ed by ol' crones on the street."

The constable cleared his throat. "I have...heard the stories, yes."

"Do you believe 'em, then?" the stranger pressed on.

"Well, personally, I have to admit I'm a little skeptical..." The constable bit his cheek uncomfortably. The stranger's voice, though no doubt young, seemed to scratch and crackle at every syllable. His aura felt frightening and mysterious, sending goosebumps crawling up the constable's pale skin. "Did you personally know Sweeney Todd?"

The stranger didn't answer immediately, drowning the air with unbearable silence. "I 'eard of 'im."

"I see," the constable said slowly, narrowing his eyes slightly. He could sense a prick of a lie sour the stranger's voice. His prim gentlemanly character took the best of him and he held out a hand.

"My name's Ichabod Crane. Delighted to meet you."

The stranger hesitated before taking Mr. Crane's hand. His hand wore a glove of ice that electrocuted Ichabod's entire body.

"The name's Tobias Ragg. The pleasure is all mine."

**Zomg. My first continual story, and Sweeney's not even in it. This takes place ten years after Sweeney died. According to Tim Burton's version of Sleepy Hollow, the movie ended at 1800. According to Peter Haining, the father of Sweeney Todd himself, Sweeney did his killing spree around 1800, even if it was published around 1840. Ah well, might as well follow their facts!**


	2. The Pie Shoppe

**Thanks to smashing, LadyAniviel, Sanguinary Tears, Emily the Strange, Verity Strange, and Christine Erik for the reviews! I'm very happy you read and enjoyed it!**

**Oh, I know that Tobias is acting a heck of a lot more different than before, but if your adoptive mother and father turned out to be murderers, your mother killed by your father, you killed your father, and your surrounded by dead people, and all those you ever knew were dead, you'd be acting a _little_ different, don't you think?  
**

Even when he exchanged only a few syllables to the young lad, Ichabod Crane could sense that this Tobias character was peculiar. He hid his face with a ragged hat and a moth-eaten scarf, shrouding his body with a heavy overcoat that seemed as if it devoured his scrawny body. His voice sent chills up Mr. Crane's spine, like ice that stung.

"May I ask how much you know of Mr. Todd?" he asked casually.

Tobias shrugged. "Not enough t' tell you much. Wha' did you learn back in New York?"

"Well, that there was a barber and three others found dead in his tenant's bakehouse, his own blade stabbed in his neck, and the landlady missing," Ichabod answered. "Also, many of his victim's family members admitted that their friends and family never really came back after running errands or getting a shave, and that the corpses were uh, grounded into meat."

Tobias didn't appear to be listening. Instead, his eyes (or where his eyes should have been, considering Ichabod couldn't find them in the jumble of assorted garments atop his head) gazed at the pie shop, drinking in the sight hungrily. Ichabod frowned.

"Is it true that this place is haunted?"

Tobias chuckled. "Even daredevils cower with fear jus' a' the sigh' o' Fleet Street. 'Specially the bakehouse. You know," Tobias turned to face Ichabod. "people say they can 'ear 'em still, 'ear 'em screaming."

Ichabod gulped. No longer underestimating the spirit world, the thought of screaming ghosts startled and interested him. He glanced at the pie shop again, as if checking for any spirits lingering around listening into their conversations. Even the peeling gold letters appeared menacing.

"Have you ever wondered what was in there?" Ichabod asked, his eyes raking sweeping past the bakehouse. "I believe that in order for me to figure out this mystery, I may have to investigate the place."

"You're either extremely ignorant or extremely stupid. Didn't you 'ear me say tha' the place is 'aunted?"

"I heard you quite clearly, thank you very much." Ichabod slowly turned the doorknob and opened the door. The hinges creaked like a dying voice as the tiny rusting bell gave a small, pitiful jingle.

"Funny," Ichabod muttered. "I actually expected the door to be locked."

The horrid stench of death and decay billowed in the air like smoke. Ichabod wrinkled his nose and stepped through the door. The rotting floor under his feet felt soft and cushioning like mold the droning buzzing of flies that swarmed near the long-decayed meat seemed to growl a tune of doom. The air suddenly felt cruel and wintry, many degrees lower than the weather outside. The dull sunlight that seeped its way through the thick clouds didn't spread its beams inside the room. The darkness devoured it like a black hole, sucking anything inside and never letting them out.

"I'm not uh, not going to find random corpses lying around, will I?" stuttered Ichabod. The reek of death flooded his nose and left a sour aftertaste coating his tongue.

"Probably not," Tobias said. "They already buried the bodies, and burned the mea'."

"That's...comforting," muttered Ichabod, sticking his nose into the bowl of putrid meat, only to hastily withdraw in distaste. In the corner of his eye, Ichabod spotted a grisly corridor, leading to an unknown room. He silently slunk towards the beckoning door.

"Wha' are you doing?" Tobias demanded.

"If I want to discover the secret of Sweeney Todd, I need to study everything," Ichabod answered simply. Tobias made a sound of protest, but wallowed in silence. Satisfied, Ichabod crept through the rotting hallway, the floorboards creaking at every step.

But to his surprise, not only was there a doorway, but a flight of stairs as well. Ichabod craned his neck to peer at the top of the stores, but everything was too shadowed to see anything. The stairs were gray and old, creaking even when nobody stood on them.

"I suppose this leads to the room where Sweeney Todd lived in?" Ichabod asked Tobias.

Tobias didn't respond, but Ichabod decided to take that answer as a yes. As deftly as a spider, Ichabod cautiously ascended the stairs. The wood boards moaned as if in agony even when his toes just barely prodded the stair. Ichabod brushed away a cloud of spiderwebs, breathing in the musty scent of dust and debris.

The place was very barren, with only a barber chair, a broken vanity, and a rusting crib present in the room. Ichabod caught his reflection in the shattered mirror and almost jumped: for a second he thought he had seen the gaunt face of Sweeney Todd leering at him. He whirled around only to discover it was just Tobias behind him.

"Who are they?" Ichabod pointed to a mottled picture frame. The brass frame was rusted and painted a disgusting hue of dark brown, and the pictures were also tarnished and muck-colored.

Wait...why would the pictures be rusting?

Ichabod narrowed his eyes and set the delicate frame down, and his jaw dropped.

Not only was the miniature frame splattered with the unidentified pigment, but so was the vanity, the walls, the entire _room_. The floors and windows were encrusted with the dried tincture, painting trembling images on them that vaguely appeared like screaming faces. It completely caked the lone barber chair in the middle of the room. Realization suddenly dawned in Ichabod's head.

"Blood!" he gasped. Fear pounded in his skull like a thunderous drum as he quickly jumped away from the chair. "Blood, everywhere!"

"The Judge's, people say," Tobias grunted. "'is corpse was the one tha' looked liked i' lost the mos' blood."

"They didn't clean up after them, I see," Ichabod grumbled, fighting down the sickly bile down his throat. He backed away from the chair, heading towards the stairs. "Well, I think that's all I need to see in this room!"

He quickly bounded down the stairs, Tobias casually tailing him. Ichabod hurriedly rearranged his features so he wouldn't appear cowardly.

"So...let me get this straight," he said. "Four people, including the barber Sweeney Todd, were found dead in the bakehouse-"

"'Aven't you talked abou' this already?"

"-Todd's own blade stabbed at his throat. So, who would kill the four blokes, anyways?" Ichabod ignored Tobias.

"I though' you New Yorkers already knew tha' i' was Todd tha' killed 'em," Tobias pointed out.

"He was found dead along with everyone else. The proof is quite vague, to be frank. For all we know, it could've been that baker Mrs. Lovett. She was missing after that anyways, and apparently the meat was baked in her pies."

Tobias open his mouth to protest, but reluctantly closed it. Ichabod frowned, licking his teeth suspiciously. Why was Tobias always so _tetchy_ when he said things like that? Pushing the wonder aside, Ichabod made his way to the next unidentified room.

The room appeared to be where the former resident lived in. There was a gray fireplace, with ashes sprayed across the room. A couple of rotting couches were piled around it, layered with a blanket of dust. Spindly tables were slowly eaten away by the ravenous cockroaches, and the threadbare cloth was gradually reduced to grubby rags.

"Seen enough ye'?" Tobias muttered.

"Not quite," said Ichabod. He fingered the archaic couch that looked like something that one would lounge or nap in. He frowned though: was it just him, or when he touched the couch, did Tobias suddenly flinch?

**_Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around..._**

Ichabod froze. The whispering voice slithered in his mind like a snake, poisoning his thoughts and senses. He slowly turned to Tobias, his body running quite cold.

"Did you say something?" he choked out.

Tobias shook his head. Ichabod clenched his teeth, shaking his head. It was nothing but the wind, right? Just his mind, playing silly games with him.

_**Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around...**_

Ichabod wasn't even aware that he was shivering. The voice, a woman's voice to be exact, hissed in his ear, echoing in the room so quietly it was barely there. But Ichabod knew it was there, he was _certain. _He swallowed, slowly backing away from the couch.

"Do you hear some singing?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"...wha' do you 'ear?" Tobias asked, his voice frighteningly calm.

_**Demons are prowling everywhere, nowadays...**_

"Are you positive you can't hear anything?" Ichabod asked fearfully, his voice cracking at the end. Cold chills wrapped around his body like ghosts, their icy fingers digging in his skin.

"We be'er leave," Tobias muttered. Ichabod gulped and nodded, quickly following Tobias out of the room, occasionally checking over his shoulder in case an ax-wielding spirit was pursuing them...again.

When they finally stepped out into the bright gray day, Ichabod let out a sigh of relief. The unnerving tremors immediately vanished, replaced by the gentle caressing of the sighing wind. He discreetly mopped the sweat off his forehead.

"I don' think tha' sneakin' in t' the shop did you any good, Mr. Constable," Tobias muttered.

"Well..." Ichabod began to protest, but closed his mouth. He had to admit, he didn't learn anything new, except that no one even bothered to clean the blood off the walls upstairs. "I guess they don't really leave much evidence or clues of anything I want to find out but..."

His eyes suddenly brightened, and a small smile flickered on his face.

"Well, I must say, I haven't checked out the bakehouse yet..."

"You're daft."

"Yes, I daresay I am," smiled Ichabod.

"If the 'ouse wasn't 'aunted, then the bake'ouse sure is," argued Tobias.

"Did they leave the poor corpses rotting there?" inquired Ichabod.

"No, I already told you, they burned and buried them all-"

"Then I don't see why I should be afraid," Ichabod finished simply. "I can assure you, Master Ragg, that ghosts have been the least of my problems."

"Says the constable tha' wos' scared ou' o' 'is wits when 'e 'eard singing," Tobias grumbled.

"That," said Ichabod hotly. "was a different matter." He shivered again at the thought of it, childhood nightmares seeping into his mind. He gritted his teeth. "So, I take it you don't have the courage to accompany me?"

"It doesn't take courage to go there. It takes stupidity."

"Well then, I guess we'll be parting for now," Ichabod interrupted impatiently. "Good day, Master Ragg, I hope to see you again some other day."

Tobias shrugged one shoulder, nodded in farewell, and turned to depart, leaving Ichabod in front of Mrs. Lovett's Pie Shoppe. Ichabod sighed, disappointed, before turning to face the bakehouse. Perhaps he was lying to himself, perhaps ghosts was part of his problems. The bakehouse seemed to hum a voice of terror and darkness. He clenched his teeth before approaching the metal door.

"Oh, and Mr. Constable?" Ichabod whirled around to see Tobias at the end of Fleet Street. His voice had a twinge of apologizing sneaked into it, barely audible against the whistling wind.

"I heard the singing too."


	3. The Bakehouse

Well, isn't this the bloody icing on the BLOODY CAKE. I messed up. Again. I accidentally deleted this chapter so I have to rewrite it. I really really REALLY need help.

* * *

Ichabod grazed his fingers on the cold metal door, a tremor running down his spine. The bakehouse smelled of death and fear, though the fear part was probably coming from him. His stomach churned uncomfortably as Ichabod took in a deep breath and wrenched open the door. 

The bakehouse was utterly dark as a night without moons or stars. Even the gray sunlight couldn't penetrate through its obsidian borders. Ichabod gulped as he shakily lit a candle that he conjured out of his bag. The feeble fire flickered, as if the darkness was so strong it quenched it. The air was so frigid that Ichabod felt like he was frozen in an ice cube. It was completely quiet. Not a sound was heard, not even Ichabod's unsteady breathing.

Ichabod tip-toed into the bakehouse with trembling legs, biting his lips. Suppose there were skeletons or dead rotting bodies scattered all over the place? He shook his head, his hands soon growing sweaty. Toby already told him that they buried the bodies and burned the meat.

Ichabod squinted in the darkness. There was a strange glint in the darkness beside him. Ichabod lifted his candle higher as he slowly crept closer, his arm outstretched to feel his way. Before he knew it, his hand met coarse metal. Ichabod frowned quizzically. What was this? It certainly wasn't an oven, and it wasn't flat to be part of the wall...Ichabod carefully set down his candle and rummaged in his bag for a more efficient lantern (ever since Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod couldn't help but bring a lantern wherever he went for safe measures). He lit the misshapen candle, relieved that the lantern emitted much more light than the candle. Then he gaped at the phenomenon before him.

The meat grinder leered down at Ichabod. The handle was still in mid-churn, and coppery rust was clinging to it. Ichabod choked before jumping away, his heart beating ferociously. This machine-no, this _metal demon _was the one that cleverly churned the victims to meat! Ichabod's eyes widened as he hastily made for the door, his feet sliding on the mildew. He immediately stopped, halting the fear that coursed through his veins.

"You have a job to do, Ichabod," Ichabod muttered to himself, flexing his stiff fingers. "You can't just run away with fear like that. You need to find out what happened. What if you get fired? Then your family would have to live on the streets..." The mere image of his beautiful Katrina and their new son shoved cruelly onto the streets sent courage surging inside Ichabod. He braced himself and approached the metal grinder again.

Apparently, the police ten years ago did a good job cleaning up after Sweeney Todd. Ichabod gingerly inspected every inch of the meat grinder, but couldn't find anything that could help him. Both relief and disappointment settled inside Ichabod. This would prove even harder to figure anything out. Not that ground meat could be any help.

"This is splendid," Ichabod grumbled to himself, scratching the metal. "How am I supposed to find out about Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett if there's no help anywhere?"

**_Mingling with the dead, boy? That's not wise, not wise at all._**

Ichabod yelped and jumped away from the meat grinder, his heart slamming against his ribs. What was that? The voice was rough and cold like stone that scraped Ichabod's ears. His breathing became shallower as his dark eyes darted around nervously for any sign of life.

"Who's there?" Ichabod demanded. "Is that you, Tobias? Don't fool me!"

There was no response. Ichabod swallowed a mouthful of bile, his body shaking uncontrollably. This was nothing like the Headless Horseman. Unlike the Horseman, Ichabod couldn't even see the ghost that haunted him. Ichabod took in deep breaths, desperately attempting to calm himself. There was nothing to be fretful about, right? It was just a voice. What can it do, speak Ichabod to death? Ichabod laughed shakily and continued to back away from the meat grinder. His back suddenly met another slab of icy metal and Ichabod gasped. He whirled around to find himself face-to-face with an oven.

Ichabod sighed and wiped his brow. It was just an oven, not an iron ghost of any sort. He ambled to the front of the oven. It was tattooed with rust and grime, with mildew holding fast to the hinges. Ichabod grimaced before a strange object caught his eye. Ichabod furrowed his eyebrows as he gently plucked the frayed black cloth that was trapped between the locked oven door and the hinges.

"Cloth?" Ichabod murmured to himself, rubbing the ashy fragment of cloth between his fingers. Bits of ashes crumbled off of the frayed edge. Ichabod raised his eyebrows questioningly. Why was there a piece of cloth stuck in the oven? Perhaps Mrs. Lovett had accidentally clamped her dress into the oven. But if so, why didn't she make an effort to free it? He brought the cloth closer to his eyes, setting down the lantern. It was a rough but glittering piece of cloth, the kind used on dresses and such.

Not to mention, the burnt side of the cloth was inside the oven, and the unharmed part was outside...

Realization suddenly flooded inside Ichabod's mind. He wrenched the oven door open, wincing when the hinges moaned and cackled its scratching voice. The rack where the pies usually rested was overturned, and a dune of grayish ash settled on the bottom. Ichabod cautiously wrestled the pie rack out of the oven and bent down onto his knees, peering at the ashes. It certainly didn't look like burnt pie, there was too much ash. Ichabod hesitated before tearing open his bag of scientific technology. He heaved up the rickety rack of chemicals and plucked some bottles out of its resting places. These ashes weren't just any typical remains. Ichabod could feel it in his blood. He tentatively uncorked the delicate bottles and sprinkled the colorless liquid onto the ashes.

Ichabod nearly dropped all the bottles with astonishment at the chemical reaction. Blackish smoke curled into the air, wrestling with the oxygen. The ashes seemed to shiver and ripple like a wave. Ichabod felt his jaw drop at the result.

Human ashes.

"This can't be..." Ichabod murmured to himself as he shoved the cork back into the bottle. He hastily dug in his bag and shoved the odd brass spectacles up his nose and bent down lower to scrutinize the ashes. As he played with the various lenses, understanding frothed inside Ichabod.

"A woman's ashes," Ichabod revealed to himself as he slid the glasses off of his face. "Probably burnt ten years ago."

Ichabod clambered to his feet, carelessly dropping the spectacles back into the bag. He paced feverishly as the engines in Ichabod's mind worked fiercely.

"A woman burned ten years ago in Mrs. Lovett's bakehouse..." Ichabod whispered, wringing his hands. "A woman who was probably related to the Sweeney Todd business in order to be anywhere near Mrs. Lovett's bakehouse. A woman who was deemed missing for ten years, the same time Sweeney Todd committed his crimes and died!"

Ichabod froze abruptly, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Well, what do you know?" he said to himself. "I think I figured out Mrs. Lovett's death the same day I arrived here."

* * *


	4. Mrs Mooney and Her Pie Shop

**Thanks for the reviews everyone. I'm very glad that people are giving me feedback. **

Ichabod desperately needed a quiet place to think. Though he had figured out the fate of Mrs. Lovett (if the ashes he discovered did belong to Mrs. Lovett in the first place), there were still thousands of questions unanswered. Why was she burned alive? Why was there those four people dead? Who killed everyone?

Unfortunately, London was not a place for silence and tranquility. Raucous cries rang out in every direction, and various animals squealed and screeched in his ears. Ichabod silently slipped past the busy Londoners and into a less crowded street, disappearing through the door of the closest shop.

The shop was ashen and unwelcoming like a stranger. There was only one soul in the room, and she didn't even acknowledge Ichabod's arrival. She tediously kneaded the floury dough, her face dusted with flour. She beat the dough with a monotone rhythm, like a war drum in the midst of a battle. Ichabod tentatively seated himself at a splintery table, thankful that the shop's doors muffle the cacophony outside.

The woman's eyes flickered toward Ichabod and her gloomy features immediately brightened.

"A customer!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I haven't seen one in weeks! How do you do, how do you do?"

Ichabod, shaken from the sudden outburst, merely nodded and muttered a 'good' under his breath. The woman brushed the knobbly dough aside and hurried to him, a golden beam plastered on her face.

"Would you like a meat pie, sir?" she asked, her voice breathy with excitement.

"...meat pie?" repeated Ichabod uncertainly. The memories of Mrs. Lovett's meat pie and her ingredients rushed into his head and his stomach churned unpleasantly.

"Yes, isn't that why you came here?" asked the woman. "This is me pie shop, o' course. Mrs. Mooney's pie shop. The pies are very good, if I do say so myself, but no one ever comes around anymore." Though it was difficult to detect, Ichabod could sense a smudge of loneliness in Mrs. Mooney. "Haven't seen more than enough customers these past ten years, m'afraid. All because of that blasted woman..."

Mrs. Mooney pranced to the fireplace and hauled out a rusting tray of pale meat pies. Ichabod swallowed as the fragrance of roasted meat wafted in his nose. It smelled scrumptious, yes, but who knew what kind of meat was crammed in there? He watched warily as Mrs. Mooney carefully gave him the steaming meat pie. He prodded it, furrowing his eyebrows.

Mrs. Mooney cocked her head and studied Ichabod, frowning slightly. "Are you that constable from America?"

Ichabod looked up from the pie. "Yes, I am. I didn't know word of me spread around here already."

"Oh no, it didn't," she said idly, brushing strands of light hair from her face. "But my brother's associated with the police and gov'ment business, and told me some bloke from New York was comin' over to investigate sumthin' 'bout Sweeney Todd."

"I see..." Ichabod answered, breaking off a bit of the flaky crust and popping it into his mouth. The rough crumb melted in his mouth and left a vanilla tang on his tongue.

"How come New York sends you over now? S'been ten years since everyone died," Mrs. Mooney said as Ichabod nibbled a morsel of the pie. "S'not like you can punish anyone they're all gone."

"Well..." Ichabod swallowed the mouthful of pie and continued. "Well, we're rather curious on what really happened. There are so many rumors and theories floating around the subject."

"You won't be having too much fun trying to figure this out," Mrs. Mooney sighed. "Everyone who knew the truth is dead already. Or at least missing." She tapped her chin.

"If you ask me..." Mrs. Mooney said, seating herself across from Ichabod. "I think it was ol' Mrs. Lovett who killed all o' those people?"

Ichabod abruptly stopped eating, his mouth in mid-chew. "Why do you think that?"

"Why would that Mr. Todd fellow do Mrs. Lovett a favor and kill people for her?" Mrs. Mooney said, leaning closer. The prospect of having a customer seemed to have loosened her tongue. "All o' those poor souls were baked in _her_ pies."

"They could've been partners in this together," Ichabod pointed out. Nevertheless, Mrs. Mooney's opinion intrigued him.

"Then how come Mr. Todd's the one rotting six feet under and Mrs. Lovett vanished? She probably did Mr. Todd in and went off t' save her own scrawny neck."

Ichabod's mind wandered over to the pallid ashes that remained rotting in the bakehouse.

"Always had a bad feeling 'bout her, I did," Mrs. Mooney declared. "Always thought she had something weird 'bout her. Me husband thought she was a _pleasant _woman." She irately poured herself a cup of gin, the drink sloshing onto the table and staining the wood. "Now look where he is. Baked in a pie and gobbled up like pot roast. Yes, tha's right," she growled, clenching her hand into a fist. "Merciless little wench, my husband went to her shop to visit her and Mr. Todd, and never came back. Then the police found his remains in the bakehouse!" Tears welled up in Mrs. Mooney's eyes and she sniveled. Ichabod shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure if he should comfort her or leave her wallowing in self-pity.

"Never was a loyal woman, anyways," Mrs. Mooney wiped her nose and continued on, sipping the glass of gin. "I mean, she was married to good ol' Albert but was absolutely _fawning_ over her neighbor that lived above her."

"Who's this neighbor?" Ichabod asked interestedly.

"I can't say I remember 'em, m'afraid," Mrs. Mooney admitted. "The poor bleeders went away twenty-five years ago." She downed the rest of her gin in one gulp and hiccupped, a pinkish tinge warming her hollow cheeks. "Not t' mention that her little boy disappeared too."

"She had a son?" asked Ichabod, completely ignoring his pie.

"Well..." Mrs. Mooney paused, quite delighted to find someone hanging to every word she uttered. "I can't say it was her _son_, but it sure seemed like she adopted the lad. He's gone too, dunno where he went."

Ichabod scratched his chin, his mind racing. Now a little boy was thrown into the mystifying chaos of Sweeney Todd. Was he of any importance, though?

"Now that I think abou' it..." Mrs. Mooney said, pouring herself another glass of gin. "The kid looked familiar...dunno where I saw him before...ah ha!" she snapped her fingers and Ichabod jumped, alarmed by the sudden noise. "I remember now! He was Pirelli's old apprentice!"

"Who's Pirelli?" Goodness, more people? This case may have more suspects than victims.

"Very popular barber back in the days. Went out o' town though, left the child here. Tha's wot Mrs. Lovett told me, anyways, the devil baker," Mrs. Mooney added bitterly. "'Course, they found his bones and clothes down in the bakehouse too, so obviously he was killed."

Ichabod nodded absentmindedly, battering his brain for any theories. He was rather doubtful that Mrs. Lovett ran off from London, and he was quite certain that Mr. Todd was the one who killed everyone, but what was the business with the little boy? He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, hoping that some kind of explanation would reveal itself in the darkness.

"Thank you for the information, Mrs. Mooney," he suddenly said, throwing a five pound note onto the table. "I appreciate the suspicions immensely, but I have to get going."

"Good luck," Mrs. Mooney sighed sullenly. Ichabod took the pie from the table and swiftly exited the pie shop. He scampered as fast as he could to his inn, only stopping to throw the pie to some imploring pussy cats in the alleyway. He scuttled into the strident inn and burst into his room, bolting the door behind him. Ichabod tore open his bag and whipped out an inkwell and his dog-eared notebook. Drowning his quill in the thick ink, he scribbled onto the crinkled paper.

_Nellie Lovett: dead? Possibly burned alive. Baked humans into pies. Loved her neighbor?  
_

_Sweeney Todd: dead. Arrived in London ten years ago not too long after customers disappear. Barber. Room covered in blood. Killed by his own knife._

_Pirelli: Dead. Not a suspect. _

_Boy: (name?) Whereabouts unknown. Adopted son and apprentice of Lovett. _

_Judge Turpin: Dead. Found dead with Sweeney Todd and Beadle Bamford (why?). _

Ichabod reread his notes over and over again until he memorized it in his head. Was this all he knew? He groaned, resting his head in his hands. None of this told him enough about Sweeney Todd, or why he killed everyone (if he killed everyone, that is), or any of the other questions those blasted officials back in New York pondered on. Ichabod licked his teeth, staring at the clues as if expecting the answer to jump out right in front of him.

Obviously, his wishes weren't granted.

**Poor Ichabod. Ah well, that's what you get for solving a crime long uncared for. sighs **

**Please review :). I really do want the feedback. Though, if you are planning on giving me feedback, please be specific about the problem. If you just tell me there's something wrong and not specify what, I'm going to be in a bit of a predicament. **


	5. Return to the Barber Shop

Dawn barely approached when Ichabod ambled out of the inn. In his opinion, the earlier you wake up, the longer the day seems. And he needed as much time as he can get.

Of course, even in the beginning of the day London's streets weren't barren. There were the occasional beggars and early birds who strolled the town on a whim. No one seemed to notice the constable discreetly advance towards Mrs. Lovett's Pie Shop. He preferred it that way.

Ichabod closed the shop door behind him, breathing in the putrid stench of mildew. He wasn't completely sure what he was doing here. What could he possibly find in the rotting home besides rats and dust bunnies? Nevertheless, Ichabod deftly squeezed his way past the doorway of spider webs and silently clambered up the stairs.

Mr. Todd's room was still overflowing with pasty sunlight that drained out the warmth of the sun. Bracing himself, Ichabod cautiously approached the bloodstained barber chair. It seemed like nothing important, merely a dilapitated piece of furniture coated with browning crust. Ichabod fingered the dried blood and flinched, its rough texture sending shocks of trepidation up his arm.

Ichabod's eyes flickered towards the decaying vanity and furrowed his eyebrows. According to that Mrs. Mooney character, someone had lived here before Mr. Todd. But why didn't they take their possessions with them, like the picture frame? He vigilantly plucked the brass frame from the table and slipped the fragile photos from its captivity. The photo was as delicate as butterfly wings, causing Ichabod to worry that if he accidentally exhaled too hard or if he pinched the photo, it would immediately crumble away into dust.

Ichabod gazed at the three smiling faces in the photo. There was a handsome man and a lovely woman, their identical smiles frozen on their features. The lady clutched a small baby girl, whose glassy eyes stared at Ichabod intensely. Her slight smile warmed Ichabod's heart, making him ache for his own family back in New York. The family was frozen in time, trapped behind a papery prison and unaware of the shadows of the future enveloping them.

_**It's not polite to play with other people's possessions.**_

Ichabod gasped and dropped the photo. He quickly scooped it out of the air before it fluttered to the ground like a butterfly. He quickly straightened and spun around frantically.

"Who's there?" he demanded. "Tobias?"

No one answered. Of course they wouldn't, ghosts (or at least imposters) wouldn't reveal themselves. Ichabod took a deep breath and quietly tucked the photo into his pocket. He may need it someday, somehow.

**_It's also not polite to take other people's things without permission. _**

Ichabod ignored the voice and studied the other items on the vanity. There was a dusty wooden box with threadbare samite blanketing the bottom. Lined as neatly as little soldiers were elegant silver barber knives that gleamed like the moon. Entranced, Ichabod carefully picked one up from its resting place. The knife sparkled and glimmered like a silvery flame. It felt warm in his hand, as if it belonged to him. Ichabod traced a finger on its smooth shell, marveling at its glossy steel.

But suddenly out of nowhere, a reflection rippled in its metallic sheen. Ichabod could clearly see the ghostly face of a man with dark piercing eyes. His lips curved into a mischievous smirk as he ran his tongue on his teeth.

"You shouldn't be touching that, if you know what's good for you."

Ichabod whirled around, but there was no one there. His stomach churned squeamishly as he quickly placed the blade back with its fellow knives and edged away from the dressing table. What in the world was _that_?

"It's all in my head," Ichabod mumbled to himself, shaking his head and seating himself on the barber chair. "All in my head, just imagining things."

**_Just because it's in your head doesn't mean it's not real._**

Ichabod didn't respond. He rested his head on his hands and closed his eyes, burrowing into his mind to somehow figure everything out. He shifted in the chair, only to feel his heel scrape a metal grate.

Metal grate...?

Ichabod swiftly bent over to be face-to-face with a coiling metal grate. He narrowed his eyes and scrambled out of the chair, dropping onto all fours to examine the phenomenon closer. Why would there be a metal barrier under a chair. He squinted his eyes and suddenly spotted an assortment of dusty metal gears.

"Why would there be gears under a chair?" Ichabod asked himself.

It didn't appear to be clumsily meshed together like a toy, it was definitely usable. But what for? Surely not to move the chair to and fro? Ichabod straightened and rubbed his chin before suddenly spotting a tainted pedal. Ichabod tentatively jabbed the pedal, wincing when it screeched with age and rust.

Before he knew it, the chair suddenly tilted backwards, forming an impromptu slope. A fragment of the floor suddenly opened like a trapdoor, revealing the sinister bakehouse several meters below. Ichabod gulped as comprehension emerged in him. This chair...no, this death device was like a gaping mouth to Hell.

"Bloody hell," was all Ichabod managed to say.

* * *

By the time Ichabod exited Mrs. Lovett's pie shop, London was bustling with vendors and early shoppers. The aroma of freshly baked bread, treacle tarts, and sweet rhubarb pie perfumed the air, but it didn't cover up the odor of sweat and people. Ichabod was racing through the crowds (much to the displeasure of Londoners), his brain drowning in questions and possible hypotheses. 

"Mr. Constable?"

Ichabod quickly skidded to a stop. "Mr. Tobias?"

"Wot are you doin' 'ere?" Tobias asked. In his gloved hands was a plump loaf of bread ready for breakfast.

"Doing my job," Ichabod merely responded.

"And tha's why you're in such a 'urry?"

"Well, I have a few things to record-" Ichabod suddenly remembered the voice. "Mr. Todd! I think I heard him!"

Bypassers shot quizzical glances at Ichabod, but he ignored them. "He talked to me, I think I even saw him too!"

"Slow down, Mr. Constable," Tobias muttered, steering Ichabod to a less crowded street. "You wouldn't want t' talk abou' Mr. T anywhere around the streets. People are still shocked tha' they migh' 'ave ea'en some o' their friends. I think tha' should be the least of their worries." He turned to Ichabod. "Did you go back in tha' 'ouse?"

"Well..."

"Tha' should be illegal," growled Tobias. "Burstin' in t' 'ouses like tha' withou' permission. You 'aven't been messing around with stuff or takin' anything, 'ave you?"

"Nothing _valuable_," Ichabod muttered. He felt no use in lying to this boy.

"So you 'ave taken somethin'! Wot did you take, eh? One o' Mr. T's blades?"

"Of course not!" Ichabod retorted indignantly. "Only a photo..." He duck his fingers into his pocket and withdrew the pale photo. "D'you know any of these people?"

Tobias bent over and scrutinize the photo. His eyes lingered to the beautiful woman and he seemed to hesitate for a bit before shaking his head. "Never saw any of 'em."

"Are you sure?" Ichabod pressed on.

"I'm qui'e sure, Mr. Constable. Ne'er seen the likes of 'em, around 'ere." Tobias shook his head again. "Nope, ne'er e'er saw 'em."

"Oh," Ichabod's shoulders drooped with disappointment. "I don't know why, but I feel that I may need them. Do you think anyone would know who they are?"

Tobias shrugged his thin shoulders. Ichabod's eyes flickered down towards the gold loaf of bread and rose an eyebrow.

"Breakfast, I presume?"

"Wot do you mean, breakfast? S'already noon."

"Noon?" Ichabod exclaimed, aghast. "I left the inn at around eight in the morning! I haven't stayed in the shop for four hours, I know that for a fact!"

"Well, I know for a fact it's eleven forty-five in the morning. I hope you at least figured out something useful, because four hours is an awfully long time," Tobias replied nonchalantly.

"I couldn't have spent more than forty-five minutes in that place..." muttered Ichabod. "I don't understand."

"I do," Tobias said. "The place is 'aunted, o' course. Made ya think you spent only 'alf an hour in tha' place, turns ou' you've been in there for 'alf a day."

Ichabod shook his head. "Are you positive you aren't playing games with me?"

"I 'aven't the time t' play silly games, Mr. Constable. Obviously you've cracked a bi' after comin' t' London. I'd offer to buy you a treacle tart for lunch, but alas, I 'ave no money on me anymore..."

"That won't be necessary," Ichabod brushed the idea aside. "I suppose time flies when you're having...well, I'll see you around again, Master Ragg."

Tobias nodded and disappeared around the corner. Ichabod remained where he was standing, gripping tightly on the papery photograph. He gazed down at the peaceful faces once more before slipping them back into his pocket and vanishing into the heart of London.

**If you give me a review, I'll buy you something from Lady Charity's Dessert Shoppe. **

**The menu is: treacle tart, pound cake, sponge cake, knickerbocker glory, sticky toffee pudding, Eton Mess, bread pudding, bananoffee pie, arctic roll, trifle, deep-fried Mars Bars, and Toby's loaf of bread.**

**All are traditional English desserts, according to Wikipedia.**

_**  
**_


	6. Benjamin Barker

London never really did leave a gossip unspoken or a rumor discontinued. It was like a swelling network, not unlike a spider web. Like London, a spider web would rapidly expand its sticky string and reel in any juicy fly (or in London's case, gossip) for all to feast upon until it was all gobbled up and everyone got tired of it. So it wasn't much of a shock that everyone knew that a young police constable from America arrived to investigate the case about Sweeney Todd. Gossipmongers would dash out of their homes and bang on the doors of their neighbors and friends, blabbering to them about the mysterious and pale police from New York. It seemed as if all of London yearned to ogle at the newcomer from America.

This proved very troublesome for Ichabod. While struggling his way through the flower vendors and outdoor shoppes, unfamiliar people would grab his arm and demand whether or not he had any luck in finding any information, or shake their heads at him and cluck their tongues, informing him it was all for nothing and that Sweeney Todd was long dead, and therefore no use in anything. Unfortunately, nosy pessimists were the least of his problems. Gaggles of ladies would giggle seductively and flutter their eyelashes at him, causing the poor soul to feel absolutely uncomfortable and wary, wishing more than ever that Katrina was with him.

Luckily for Ichabod, the town hall was close by, which meant that he could avoid the curious stares and gibbering mouths. He quickly crept into the majestic hall and hastily shut the mahogany doors behind him.

The Guildhall was as silent as the grave, and as cold as one too. The floors, walls, and ceiling were of marble, gleaming with a creamy and blotchy sheen. The ceilings were domed and regal, with sender pillars supporting them. The room was exquisitely capacious, enough to fill all of New York. Mountains of crystals hung gracefully, a brassy light illuminating the room. The officials glided across the vanilla floor like ghosts, speaking in breathy whispers and making no sound at all, not even when they breathed.

Ichabod felt graceless as he stride through the grandiose hall, his loafers clacking raucously and echoing in the marble dome. The officials didn't even twitch at the clumsy noise, or cast a sideways glance at the stranger causing a ruckus in the hall. Ichabod bashfully slipped out of the room to the courthouse.

Immediately, when he swung open the oak doors, sound flooded his ears. Judges and juries chattered over the loud din, arguing with raised voices or sharing nasty rumors of their neighbors or tenants. Ichabod felt relieved at the lively, bustling crowd in the courthouse, assuring himself that not all of London's executors were dead silent.

"And what have we here?" a resounding voice suddenly bellowed behind him. Ichabod jumped and spun around, face-to-face with a broad-shouldered man with a mop of orange hair. "Are you lost, young lad?"

"N-no," stammered Ichabod, his ears still ringing from the loudmouth's voice. "I'm Ichabod Crane, the police constable from New York-"

"Why, yes you are! The little constable from America!" boomed the man. "I expected someone older than you are, boy."

"I can assure you, I'm not underage," retorted Ichabod indignantly.

"Well, boy, what brings you here? Wandering around the town hall isn't going to help you solve anything."

"I was hoping that one of you officials could identify these people," Ichabod said coldly, whipping out the photograph. The man swiped the picture frame from Ichabod's grasp and peered at it. The picture seemed to shudder at his breath and Ichabod cringed in fear.

"Uh, sir, I'd like it if you were more careful-"

"Nope, don't know any of them," the man said, handing back the picture. "How long ago was this picture taken? I've only lived in London for eight years."

"Oh," said Ichabod disappointedly. How was he supposed to know who those mysterious people were if no one else knew them.

"Bless my eyes," a quavering voice suddenly wheezed behind him. "It's the Barkers."

Ichabod jumped in shock and whirled around. Before him was a whithered, ancient man with pale skin and wispy hair. He seemed translucent, as if his entire body was wearing away with age. His knobbly hands clutched a polished cane, but he still shuddered and shook at every move he made. He was so fragile that Ichabod feared that if he exhaled too powerfully, the man would suddenly crumble away into silver dust.

"Who are they, sir?" Ichabod asked, excitement surging in him.

"The Barkers," the old man repeated, his voice cracking. His clear blue eyes were glazed at the sight of the familiar faces. "Bless their souls, bless them. Poor things, poor things..."

"What happened to them?" Ichabod questioned feverishly.

"Who knows, who knows?" the man moaned, shaking his head. "Poor Benjamin...poor Lucy...Benjamin was sent away."

"Why?"

"Judge Turpin...he accused Benjamin of treason. Transported him for life to hard labor in Australia. Gone, he is, gone. Terrible Judge Turpin, lying Judge..."

"Judge Turpin was lying?" asked Ichabod.

"Yes! His reasons were unreasonable, and Benjamin had an alibi! But no, no, no, they still sent him away. He's gone now, gone as dead."

"When did this happen?"

"Twenty-five years ago," whispered the man, his voice so delicate that Ichabod wondered if he accidentally interrupt, it would shatter like glass. "I don't know if he's dead, or alive, or anything...poor soul...terrible Turpin..."

"And what of the wife and baby?" Ichabod pressed on. A sudden sadness glazed over the poor man, and it seemed as if he was about to die.

"Poisoned herself, the poor woman," he whimpered. "And the child...Turpin adopted the girl..."

"But Turpin's dead. Where is she now?" asked Ichabod.

"Disappeared, I think. Gone, like her parents," sniffled the man.

Ichabod had long realized that information of disappearing people did not help him at the slightest.

"Do you know anything of Sweeney Todd?" Ichabod asked.

"Not enough to help you," the old man sighed. "I just know he came around ten years ago, and opened a barber shop above Mrs. Lovett. I saw more of him dead than alive, my lad."

"What do you mean?" Ichabod frowned.

"The first time I saw more than just a glimpse of him was when he was dead. It was in the dead of night, ten years ago, when a young girl in sailor's clothing came running to the police. I was with the police at the moment, but I didn't follow the girl and her friend to the bakehouse. She told us that a man covered in blood threatened to cut her throat, but showed mercy when something screamed down below. At first, we thought she was daft, but decided to humor her as she kept persisting.

"Some time later, I saw the police carry the bodies out. They were completely drenched in blood, with awful gashes on their necks. They were burning the ground meet, and burying the bodies. I haven't much information for you, lad, I'm sorry. You best be asking the police force about this."

"Thank you," said Ichabod gratefully. "This may clear some things up." That was a downright lie, because Ichabod wasn't sure if any of this was going to be useful. Why would Benjamin Barker be related to Sweeney Todd? "Can you tell me the name of one of the police?"

"One of their name's is John Samuels. The police aren't too far away, the last building on Linnet Street. You best be going, lad," the man croaked. "Opportunities to figure out mysteries like this can slip right out of your grasp."

"Yes, sir. Thank you," said Ichabod, nodding. "I shall be leaving now, and question the police. Thank you again for your information." Ichabod turned to leave, wrenching open the polished gleaming doors.

"Good luck, boy. You won't like what you'll hear."

Ichabod frowned quizzically. What did that mean? Was he supposed to not like the truth? He rushed out of the town hall, dashing past the snooping persons, scanning for Linnet Street.

"Always in a 'urry, aren't you, Mr. Constable?"

Ichabod jumped. "Must you always do that, Master Ragg?"

Tobias shuffled sheepishly beside Ichabod. "In London, s'always easy t' sneak up on someone. Ev'ryone's so loud 'ere, you can't even 'ear a person breathin' down your neck."

"Do you perhaps enjoy scaring me like that?" muttered Ichabod, straining to find the street.

"I can't deny tha' s'awful entertainin', Mr. Constable."

Ichabod sighed. "I don't really have any time. I need to find Linnet Street to go on with the case."

"I though' all evidence pointed t' Mr. T already."

"Not really," muttered Ichabod. "Now there's some people pointing fingers to the Devil Baker Mrs. Lovett."

Tobias suddenly froze and grasped Ichabod's shoulder roughly. "Wot did you call 'er?"

"Tobias..." Ichabod said apprehensively. Tobias was shaking with an unknown emotion, which terrified Ichabod. Tobias' eyes, which was usually obscured by the ragged hat, were on fire.

"Don't you dare call Mrs. Lovett a devil, don't you dare!" he snapped, hissing through his teeth.

"All right, all right, I'm sorry!" Ichabod exclaimed, wriggling out of Tobias' grasp. "Why are so upset?"

Tobias stiffened and withdrew his hand, wringing them uncomfortably. Ichabod narrowed his eyes.

"Did you know Mrs. Lovett personally? Is that why you're all angry?" he asked suspiciously.

"'Course not!" Tobias quickly retorted. "Didn't know any of 'em! No, I'm jus'...really religious, 'ate it when people say uncouthly things and all..."

Ichabod furrowed his eyebrows. "I see," he said casually. Tobias' eyes lowered to the ground, refusing to look at Ichabod in the eye. "I...understand. I suppose-"

"You said you wanted t' go t' Linne' Street, aye?" Tobias hastily interrupted. "I know where it is. Jus' go on a lit'le further and you'll see a tinker shop, and there's Linne' Street for ya."

Ichabod immediately forgot about Tobias' suspicious behavior. Remembering his duty, he quickly thanked Tobias and rushed down the street. Tobias stared at the swiftly retreating back of the constable before turning away.

"Ne'er call Mrs. Lovett a Devil, you," he muttered to himself, melting in the shadows. "Ne'er will you say tha' again."

**If you give me a review, I'll buy you something from Lady Charity's Dessert Shoppe. **

**The menu is: treacle tart, pound cake, sponge cake, knickerbocker glory, sticky toffee pudding, Eton Mess, bread pudding, bananoffee pie, arctic roll, trifle, deep-fried Mars Bars, and Toby's loaf of bread.**

**Please review! **


	7. Mr Samuels and His Memories

Ichabod was plumb tired. That was something that couldn't be argued. It was only his second day here in London after a long tremulous voyage on a ship from New York, and his brain was already crammed with facts, rumors, and questions. He scuffed his loafers across the rough gravel with Linnet Street just within his reach. He fervently steered himself around the corner, passing the tinker shop in Linnet Street and quickening his pace.

The police house was a foreboding stone with thick glass windows that were heavily curtained. Ichabod sensed that the police in London were quite clandestine and bit his lip. Maybe intruding and interrogating this Mr. Samuels may be a tad dodgy. Nonetheless, Ichabod breathed in deeply and knocked the metal door. The noise resounded, echoing in the grand building and shattering the hum of practical routine in London. The iron doors swung open, revealing a lanky man with thick blond hair. Ichabod gritted his teeth nervously.

"Good afternoon, sir, I'm sorry for intruding, but I am-"

"You're that New York police, aren't you?" the man interrupted, his voice wispy and dwindling like silk threads. "Do come in, I suppose you're trying to find out about Sweeney Todd?"

"I-" Ichabod began, quite stunned that all of London knew about him and his duty. The man's tapering fingers practically wrung Ichabod's thin wrist when he grasped it and yanked him in. Ichabod stumbled into the room, rubbing his wrists as the man hurriedly rushed away to fetch Mr. Samuels.

"I never even told him I _needed_ Mr. Samuels..." Ichabod murmured to himself. His voice ricocheted off the granite walls and polished checkered floor, fluttering wildly in the buildling like a fretful bird. London seemed to know more than he bargained for. He tentatively seated himself on a splintery wooden chair nearby, licking his lips nervously.

"You wanted me?" a deep voice resonated in Ichabod's ears. He quickly looked up to see a tall, colorless man. His hair was a pastel yellow and his face was exquisitely pale like a porcelain doll. Ichabod hastily climbed onto his feet, brushing specks of dust off his shirt.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Samuels, I'm-"

"I know who you are," Mr. Samuels held up a hand to stop him. "Your name echoed over all of London, I needn't hear it again."

"Ah," muttered Ichabod sheepishly, staring at an invisible point on the patterned floor. "Well, I am aware that you were the police who was sent and-"

"Found all those dead bodies? Indeed I am," Mr. Samuels finished. Ichabod closed his mouth, biting his cheek. "I take it you want to hear the whole story, aye?"

"That would be lovely," said Ichabod. Mr. Samuels stride over and sleekly settled in the chair opposite of Ichabod.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to start it like a story, shall I? It was some time ten years ago, but I remember it as if it was yesterday. Not even yesterday, perhaps as if it was this morning."

"Must've scarred you nastily, I presume," Ichabod assumed timidly.

"Indeed. At first I thought it was all nothing special, a typical prank played by teenagers. Obviously it wasn't as it seemed..."

_Night was always an ally to thieves and wrongdoers, stowing away their secretive plots and coups and hoarding them in the deep folds of darkness. Mr. Samuels could name plenty occasions in which criminals slipped from his grasps like ice and disappeared forever. That was why he always hated the night. He constantly kept the dim light on during the night, so no secrets could escape him._

_But there was one particular night that masked the secrets forever in the crinkles of the dark._

_James Samuels had just lit a match for the lamp when a thundering pounding shook the iron door. He frowned suspiciously and extinguished the match as his fellow policemen crowded around the door. A young child, no older than sixteen, was huffing at their doorstep, her golden hair escaping the captivity of her sailor hat. The men quizzically examined the girl head to toe, pondering why in the world a child was calling them at this time of day. At the sight of the young child's face, James immediately recognized her as Judge Turpin's ward._

_"Johanna, what are you doing here?" he questioned. _

_"Please, sirs, there's a murderer at the barber shop in Fleet Street!" she screamed, clutching her face.  
_

_"Slow down, child," James said, advancing towards her. "What are you talking about? A murderer in Fleet Street?"_

_"Yes, exactly!" she wailed. "I was...up there, and then the barber...Mr. Todd, he was soaked in blood and threatened to kill me!"_

_"Mr. Todd? You don't mean Sweeney Todd the gifted barber, do you?" asked one of James' men. "Why would he be covered in blood?"_

_"I don't know, he must've killed someone before! I heard gurgling noises before he found me, but I couldn't see anything! But there was a scream downstairs, and he disappeared!"_

_"This one must be daft," muttered another. "A loony at least, or a silly prank."_

_"Please, sirs," another boy chirped, His small hands were clutching the girl's slender shoulders. "She's not crazy at all, please, just come!"_

_The men exchanged glances and muttered with each other like buzzing bees. _

_"There may be in fact something fishy going on there."_

_"A murderer? In London? Absurd!"_

_"Just silly kids playing tricks on us."_

_"We could always humor her."_

_Finally, James and four other police men fetched their effects , clumsily threw on their uniforms and followed the two teenagers. Tears were streaming down Johanna's eyes as she clutched the boy's arm tightly, her fingers snaking around his elbow. Nervousness crept into James as they ran closer and closer to Fleet Street. Perhaps Johanna was telling the truth?_

_"The bakehouse...the door's open..." she whispered, pointing a graceful finger towards the bakehouse. Flickering orange lights emitted from the small opening. The heavy door was half ajar, beckoning James to come inside. Neighbors in their sleeping gowns were peeking out of their windows and doors with curiosity. James braced himself for the worst and stepped inside. _

_A pool of scarlet blood carpeted the damp stone floor. Dead bodies with deep wounds maiming their throats were sprawled everywhere, near the roaring oven. Odd limbs were sticking out of a strange meat grinder and sent a wave of disgust and alarm over James. The small girl shivered and hid her face in her friend's shoulder as James bent down to study the victims. _

_"Judge Turpin!" he gasped. "And the Beadle Bamford!"_

_They weren't the only ones. Cradling the dead body of a beggar woman was Sweeney Todd. A glimmering barber knife protruded from his throat like a thorn, and a trickle of blood was still trailing down his wound. _

_"Get the priest," James said quietly as he backed away from the nightmare._

"We have absolutely no leads to this phenomenon," Mr. Samuels admitted, running his fingers through his pale yellow hair. "Not a sign of anything. None of the neighbors saw anyone leaving the place, or anything else. Mrs. Lovett is a prime suspect, but where did she run off to?"

"Mrs. Lovett might not be the only suspect," Ichabod muttered, rubbing his chin. "It could be that apprentice of hers. From what I heard, she got the apprentice of Pirelli."

"Signor Pirelli? We found his old clothes and skeleton down in the bakehouse also. I don't know his name, but I know he was from the factory," added Mr. Samuels. "But why would a kid do it?"

"Who knows?" sighed Ichabod. "Have you got any pictures of Sweeney Todd?"

"Alive?" Mr. Samuels asked, digging his hand into his shirt pocket. "Not alive, but we did get a picture of them when they were dead." He whipped it out from his pocket and shoved it in Ichabod's face.

"O-oh!" stammered Ichabod, bile crawling up his throat. "That's uh...very...oh goodness..."

But suddenly a particular face caught his eye. He plucked the photo out of Mr. Samuel's grasp and scrutinized the beggar woman's face. There was a familiar aura coming from it, but Ichabod just couldn't remember-

He immediately whipped out his photo of the Barkers, his eyes constantly darting from the beggar woman to Lucy Barker like a battle. The two faces screamed so piercingly with similarity that Ichabod yelped, dropping both photos.

"What's wrong?" asked Mr. Samuels. Ichabod shook his head, unable to speak. He carefully picked up the photos again and handed them to Mr. Samuels.

"Tell me," he said. "Do those two faces," he pointed to Lucy and the beggar woman. "look similar to you?"

Mr. Samuels bent in closer to examine the pictures. "As a matter of fact, they do."

"Lucy Barker didn't have any twin siblings of any sort, did she?" Ichabod pressed on.

"Not that I know of," Mr. Samuels admitted.

"And she poisoned herself, according to that old geezer," Ichabod muttered to himself. "And she couldn't have died and rose from the dead (with her head still connected to her body, that is)..."

"You're not saying-"

"-This must be Lucy Barker!" exclaimed Ichabod passionately. "What other explanation could there be? Who else looks like Lucy except herself? Maybe the poison didn't work...maybe it was just a nasty rumor blowing around in the wind..."

"Aren't you jumping to conclusions?" Mr. Samuels suggested.

"What else can it be, Mr. Samuels? Lucy's secret evil twin?" argued Ichabod.

"The beggar woman was absolutely crazy, out of her mind," pointed out Mr. Samuels. "Lucy was quite far from loony."

"An official at the Guildhall told me she poisoned herself," argued Ichabod. "For all we know, the poison could have failed, but messed with her mind. If we could study the corpse, perhaps we could perform an autopsy-"

"The body would have rotted by now. You won't be able to find anything," retorted Mr. Samuels. "Plus, I'm sure it's somewhat sacrilegious."

"Even a dead body can tell many tales, Mr. Samuels," Ichabod answered. "I can assure you, Mr. Samuels, I have performed similar practice myself."

"That's comforting," grumbled Mr. Samuels.

"But why would Sweeney Todd be cradling Lucy...?" Ichabod scratched his chin thoughtfully, closing his eyes to ponder on this further. When he opened them, he was astonished to find Mr. Samuels searching his face.

"You look like Mr. Barker," he said slowly. Ichabod's hand automatically fingered his face and frowned.

"What are you talking about?"

"You look like him..." Mr. Samuels declared. He shook his head, rubbing his forehead. "Probably just me and my eyes..."

Ichabod shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It wasn't every day you were compared to someone who was swept away to Australia.

"Mr. Samuels, what happened to those two children after they led you to the bakehouse?" he asked, steering the subject away from him.

"Those two? From what I saw, they climbed inside of carriage and rode out of London," answered Mr. Samuels, frowning questioningly. "What are you thinking?"

"Do you know who any of them were?" asked Ichabod. "Ever seen them before?"

"Well, the girl is Johanna, Turpin's adopted daughter, as I already told you," Mr. Samuels admitted. "But the boy was a sailor that had arrived in London recently with Mr. Todd."

"What?" Ichabod gasped incredulously. "Wait...tell me more about the boy."

Mr. Samuels seemed flustered at this interrogating constable. "All I know about the boy is that he's a sailor that also brought Sweeney Todd to London with him."

"Was Sweeney Todd a sailor?"

"By the looks of it...no. He didn't seem like one to me. He could have just been catching a ride with the boy-"

"Do you know his name? The ship they were on? Their captain?"

"So many questions and so few answers!" exclaimed Mr. Samuels. "Alas, I don't know."

"Where did they go?" Ichabod questioned, the gears in his mind working ferociously.

"I questioned the driver of the carriage," Mr. Samuels confessed. "They went off to Brighton, England. Last he saw of them, they were trying to join the crew of a ship."

"The girl too?" frowned Ichabod. "Which ship?"

"It was something like The Flying Poodle..."

Ichabod raised an eyebrow. "Flying...Poodle? What kind of name is that?"

"Ten years can do a lot of things to your memory, boy," snapped Mr. Samuels. "I don't remember the name, but it's something similar to that-"

Ichabod immediately shook Mr. Samuel's hand vigorously. "Thank you! Thank you so much! I can't tell you how many clues you have given me!"

"What clues-?"

It didn't matter. Ichabod had disappeared as quickly as he come.

**If you don't get it, don't worry. Ichabod will explain it to himself sooner or later...**

**Want some English pastries? Now including Italian desserts too. **

**The menu is: treacle tart, pound cake, sponge cake, knickerbocker glory, sticky toffee pudding, Eton Mess, bread pudding, bananoffee pie, arctic roll, trifle, deep-fried Mars Bars, Toby's loaf of bread, tiramisu, zabaglione, cannoli, ****Génoise Cake,**** semifreddo, and pignolata.**

**Please review! **


	8. Mrs Lovett

**Zomg. I just came back from a regionals writing competition. I got second place and an honorable mention. Guess what the story was about? Nightmares! And its inspiration? My Sweeney fic :D**

Ichabod dashed through the alleyways and streets, the wind whistling in his ears. His head was swimming with so many clues and information that they were on the verge of spilling out of his ears. He couldn't even believe himself. Able to figure out so many clues in the course of two days? The idea was both absurd and wonderful.

The constable rushed into Fleet Street and scuttled inside Mrs. Lovett's Pie Shoppe. Immediately, all the boisterous ruckus outside dimmed to a threadbare whisper. Ichabod sighed and jadedly rested on the clammy bench moist with mold. Strangely, Ichabod found comfort in the pie shoppe and barber parlor. It was like his own little private and peaceful world, a raft afloat in the sea of commotion and confusion.

Wait...where did that gin bottle come from?"

Ichabod raised his eyebrows at the half-empty bottle of gin placed innocently on the table. This was definitely not here the last time he came, nor did he remembering drinking any gin. He leaned forward, scratching his nail on the glass bottle. It wasn't old as far as he could see, and recently drunk too. Not to mention the half-smoked cigarette thrown next to it, a thread of smoke still winding in the air.

_Even daredevils cower with fear jus' a' the sigh' o' Fleet Street. _

The memory of Tobias' voice flitted in Ichabod's mind. If that was true, then whose gin was this? And who would really come here to just drink something and smoke cigarette?

_A person similar to you, since you come here to write notes, _a thought whispered slyly. Ichabod ignored his mind before sliding out of his seat.

A cold shiver ran down Ichabod's body. For some reason, he felt as if he wasn't alone, as if a shadow of a person was haunting his every move. Never before had he felt this in this house. Ichabod gripped his notebook tightly, its rough texture imprinting a tattoo on his palm. Invisible voices seemed to seep through his skin and poison his blood, freezing it into ice. Ichabod swallowed, his mouth and throat dry.

Suddenly, a muffled wail cried out from Mrs. Lovett's parlor. Ichabod gasped, his heart jumping into his throat. The sobbing echoed throughout the corridor like a haunting song. It was like the voice of an unknown woman, whose pain and melancholy bled through the singed wallpaper and oozed onto Ichabod. He clenched his teeth, but it barely stopped the constant chattering. Who was there, and why were they crying? He pressed his back on the wall, slowly edging his way closer to the doorway. He hesitantly poked his head through the doorway.

No one was there. The crying immediately stifled into nothingness. Ichabod gaped at the room, searching for any sign of who was crying seconds earlier. There was no one, not a living soul.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice pricked with panic. Not a sound. The shadows seemed to flicker on the wall, but there was no flame that made them dance. Ichabod shuddered and skirted away, his heart thumping wildly on his chest and carving an engraving on his ribs. Sobbing...desperate sobbing...it rang in his ears and made his skin crawl.

"Nothing," he murmured, clambering up the stairs to Mr. Todd's barber shop. "My imagination..."

_Always blaming your poor mind,_ his conscience told himself. _Maybe you should try facing the facts and tell yourself it's all real._

He tried clearing his head and sat on the floor (he pointedly ignored the barber chair), flipping open his notebook. He immediately bent over, scrawling shaky notes onto the crinkled paper.

_Sweeney Todd seen cradling (maybe) BEGGAR WOMAN (Lucy Barker)_

_Johanna: Adopted by JUDGE TURPIN.Old man says she disappeared. MR. SAMUELS says she ran off with sailor boy to BRIGHTON and joined the FLYING POODLE (?)_

_Sailor Boy: The one who brought SWEENEY to London ten years ago (name unknown). Ran off with JOHANNA and joined ship._

_Mrs. Lovett's assistant: PIRELLI'S old apprentice, from the factory. _

_Why would Lucy poison herself? (pain of losing Ben?)_

Ichabod tapped his chin with the tip of his pen. Would she really be that disheartened that she would commit suicide rather than wait for her husband to come back home? Women were quite unpredictable and fickle.

**_You again, boy? You come here more often than Mrs. Lovett's assistant._**

Ichabod jumped, ink squirting out of his pen and dotting the floor. He was used to the voice speaking to him, but it was what Mr. Todd said that made his ears prick.

"Mrs. Lovett's assistant? Who is he? When did he come?"

_**I'll let you have fun solving that part, aye?**_

Ichabod glowered before returning to his notes, rubbing dollops of ink off the floorboards. "If you don't mind, I'm rather busy."

_**You think that in a week you could solve a mystery that even London couldn't decipher in ten years?**_

"They didn't constantly try for ten years. They just threw it aside and let it rot on the first months. I'm actually putting in some effort."

**_Wise words coming from a foolish mind. You remind me of myself._**

"In what ways? Insane? I've been told that many times."

_**No. Naive. **_

"How am I naive?" protested Ichabod. "And when were you?"

For a moment, it seemed as if the voice sighed with sadness.

_**Too long ago. A time when I wasn't who I am now. **_

"Pardon me for being so 'naive' and hopeful in asking, Mr. Todd (if that really is your name), but if you really did kill those people, why did you do it?" demanded Ichabod, steering the subject away. He doubted he would get a proper answer, else it would be too easy.

**_You're a constable. Your job is to figure out why. Getting information from me would be cheating._**

"There's no rules when it comes to mysteries," Ichabod said. "Life has no guidelines."

_**Death is an inevitable and unpredictable business. I was just saving the poor souls the trouble of waiting.**_

"So you're trying to say you were doing mankind a favor," stated Ichabod plainly.

**_Quite, but not always in the way you suspect._**

"What are you talking about?" Ichabod inquired suspiciously.

**_I'll let you figure that on your own._**

Ichabod gritted his teeth in anger. "If you're not going to be any help, can you please leave me alone?"

At last, there was a deafening silence. Ichabod sighed with relief and concentrated again on his notes. Perhaps Lucy's motive of poisoning herself wasn't important. After all, the men back in New York only cared about the demon barber. Of course, it still meant a smudge of unsatisfactory in Ichabod's mind after he was done with the case.

That is, if he was ever going to figure it out.

"I'll go to the factory first," he muttered to himself, flipping to a clean leaf and scratching his plans onto the paper. "to find out about that apprentice person that obviously no one knows about. Then I'll be off to Brighton and find out anything about the...Flying Poodle." He sighed and closed the book, feeling somewhat defeated. All of this perfectly made _no_ sense, but it seemed as if all the puzzles fell in the right place. He was just missing the majority of the pieces.

**_So this is the boy tha' Mr. T was talkin' abou'...I though' it would 'ave been someone older..._**

Ichabod quickly stood up, whirling around at the spot. That wasn't Mr. Todd's voice anymore...it was a woman's voice. A woman with a Cockney accent...the same one who was singing the first day he came.

The same voice who was crying not too long ago...

"Who are you?" he queried, searching in his jacket the pastel blue book of spells Katrina had given him so long ago. Though he doubted that he was able to use them or that they would be of any use at the moment, he still found comfort in the leather-bound book.

The voice seemed to heave a sigh that was lined with sorrow. Ichabod couldn't help but pity the unknown voice. There still seemed to be tears dampening the voice.

"Mrs...Mrs. Lovett?" he asked weakly.

**_You catch on quickly, love. An' Mr. T told me you were slow._**

"Can you help me?" he asked quickly. "Anything! I'm desperate! There's so much I don't understand!"

**_M'sorry love, but you've got t' do it on your own._**

"This is just fantastic," Ichabod muttered, scuffing his heels on the rough floor. "Not only are random spirits talking to me, but I feel like I'm at a dead end! Why are spirits talking to me, anyways? I don't know magic nor am I special! Why?" Ichabod knew fully well he was acting like a child throwing a tantrum, but he couldn't help it. Frustration boiled his blood as he paced around. "Why were you crying down there anyways? And why can't I see you?"

For a small moment, there was silence. Ichabod wondered if the voice had just disappeared and he was all alone again.

_**I couldn't talk t' 'im...**_Mrs. Lovett's voice trembled. _**I couldn't talk t' me boy when 'e came...my dear boy...**_

The air felt colder as the voice choked back sobs, and Ichabod regretted shouting so angrily. He reached out a hand to comfort Mrs. Lovett, but found out that there was no body to console.

"How come you can talk to me?" he asked. "But not talk to him?"

Mrs. Lovett's ghost gave a watery chuckle. **_Tha's wot I've been askin' meself for so long._**

Ichabod wasn't sure whether or not to take that as an insult or an innocent statement. It seemed as if no one enjoyed the company of Ichabod Crane nowadays.

"Was it your ashes I found in the bakehouse?" he attempted to ask.

No one spoke. The barber shop was once again succumbed to silence.

* * *

"Why is it tha' evr'ytime I'm off t' run an errand, I always run int' _you_?"

Ichabod sighed. He had just turned the corner after exiting Fleet Street when he ran into the one and only person he knew in London: Tobias.

"I feel insulted," Ichabod said.

"Don't take it personally. It's jus' tha' three times in one day is a li'le too much."

"I think I can only take in so many insults in one day," grumbled Ichabod.

"Ya seem somewot irrita'ed t' me. Wot is it now, eh? Mr. Todd givin' ya a 'ard time?"

"Not just him," muttered Ichabod. "Seems like Mrs. Lovett is ganging up on me too. Those two bleeders aren't telling me anything that I don't know-"

"Wot did you say?"

Tobias' voice had grown terribly grave. Ichabod gulped, wondering if he was more scared of Tobias or the mysterious ghosts in Fleet Street.

"You've been talkin' t' Mrs. Lovett?" Tobias demanded.

"Well...I suppose...that we talked," Ichabod confessed, backing away from Tobias. The lad's body seemed to stiffen.

"Why wos she talkin' t' you?" Tobias growled. "She doesn't even know you! Why does she suddenly start talkin' t' _you_ after all these years?"

"I-" Ichabod tried to interrupt, but couldn't get a word edgewise. Tobias pointed an accusing finger at Ichabod.

"You're no one special t' 'er! In fact, you're no one t' 'er! Bu' why does she come ou' only when _you_ came? I...people 'ave been tryin' for years and nothin'!"

"I have no idea why it's happening!" protested Ichabod, brushing Tobias' reproachful and hurtful comments aside. "I haven't any control over it! You can't blame me!"

At that, Toby froze. Ichabod was now pressed against a brick building, struggling to avoid any of Tobias' unpredictable wrath. After what seemed like an eternity, Tobias backed away, shuddering.

"Forge' evr'ythin'," he muttered, his voice melting with London's noise. "I didn't do anythin'. Forge' it all."

Ichabod didn't know how to answer, or if he even should. Tobias finally turned his back towards Ichabod and sprinted away from sight, leaving Ichabod swamped with puzzlement and unease.

**Zomg. Toby's losin' control! Careful there, Ragg, you're blowin' ya cover. Seems like things are getting more or less clearer. **

**Review and get yourself a nice dessert. If you don't review, a poor pretty ward will be killed by her father she never knew. That's right. Going against canon, bwahaha. **

**The menu is: treacle tart, pound cake, sponge cake, knickerbocker glory, sticky toffee pudding, Eton Mess, bread pudding, bananoffee pie, arctic roll, trifle, deep-fried Mars Bars, Toby's loaf of bread, tiramisu, zabaglione, cannoli, ****Génoise Cake,**** semifreddo, and pignolata.**

* * *


	9. Brighton

Ichabod was still pressed against the brick wall, shock slowly ebbing away. Why in the world did Tobias suddenly explode like that? He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. As if he didn't have enough mysteries to solve already.

He slowly peeled himself off the wall, teetering through the sidewalk. Attempting to ignore the little mishap with Toby, he continued on with his search, though still somewhat distracted. Not to mention he was still in a bit of a forked road while heading towards the answer of Sweeney Todd. Mrs. Lovett's apprentice may have been from a factory, but London was quite a large and industrialized city with factories choking out smoke right, left, and center.

_Mrs. Lovett..._the familiar name brought chills to Ichabod, crudely reminding him about Tobias and the mysterious assistant. He groaned, rubbing his forehead. How in the world can he concentrate when his mind was swamped with so many questions?

"All right," he murmured to himself, leaning on a lamppost. "There are at least ten factories in this wretched city, and only one of them had that baker boy. _Delightful_." Ichabod's mood had soured considerably and left him to wallow in doubt and pessimism.

"Not to mention," he continued on, ignoring the stares of people who wondered why this young man was muttering to himself. "I also need to get to Brighton to find out about the other two." He craned his neck towards the sky, squinting his eyes. The clouds were blackish blue, like a bruise. The air smelled of infected rain and thunderstorms, sickening him. Ichabod breathed in the misty fumes of tainted London, the engines in his mind ferociously clanking in his head. Without warning, he scampered towards the inn, his strategy replaying in his head.

Ichabod wrenched open the door of his room and tore open his bag, throwing in all his possessions (occasionally accidentally packing an item that didn't belong to him). He discreetly slipped out of the inn without anyone acknowledging his departure as if he was a ghost.

Finally, a black carriage, shining like a night sky, trotted towards Ichabod. He hurriedly yanked open the door and clambered in as if he were fleeing from the Headless Horseman again. He wrenched the door close, struggling to untangle himself in the mess of his bags in the extremely cramped carriage.

"You in a 'urry?" asked the muffled voice of the driver.

"You can say that," sighed Ichabod, shoving his possessions to one side of the seat. "To Brighton, please. As fast as you can."

The coachman grunted in response and with the flick of the whip, the horses swiftly trotted down the street, nimbly dodging the careless pediatricians. Ichabod pulled out his notebook again, flipping past the pages of his previous sketches and undecipherable notes.

_Nellie Lovett: dead? Possibly burned alive. Baked humans into pies. Loved her neighbor?  
_

_Sweeney Todd: dead. Arrived in London ten years ago not too long after customers disappear. Barber. Room covered in blood. Killed by his own knife._

_Pirelli: Dead. Not a suspect. _

_Boy: (name?) Whereabouts unknown. Adopted son and apprentice of Lovett. _

_Judge Turpin: Dead. Found dead with Sweeney Todd and Beadle Bamford (why?)._

_Sweeney Todd seen cradling (maybe) BEGGAR WOMAN (Lucy Barker)_

_Johanna: Adopted by JUDGE TURPIN.Old man says she disappeared. MR. SAMUELS says she ran off with sailor boy to BRIGHTON and joined the FLYING POODLE (?)_

_Sailor Boy: The one who brought SWEENEY to London ten years ago (name unknown). Ran off with JOHANNA and joined ship._

_Mrs. Lovett's assistant: PIRELLI'S old apprentice, from the factory. Mrs. Lovett very fond of boy  
_

_Why would Lucy poison herself? (pain of losing Ben?)_

Ichabod leaned his forehead on the glass window, breathing cloudy pictures onto the window. Was there such thing as an unsolvable mystery? He gazed at the London homes and markets passing by him, people laughing and chatting without a care in the world. Was he the only one in this stupid city that had troubles?

The carriage passed the dark Fleet Street. There was a silhouette of a person before the Pie Shoppe, alone with only shadows to accompany him. Ichabod jolted and squinted at him. The person discreetly slipped into the shop, unbeknownst to him that Ichabod spied him. He gaped and twisted to observe through the back window, but Fleet Street was now shrinking in sight behind him. Ichabod remained crouched on the seat, staring out the back window, his face unreadable. Who was that person? Why were they going inside the pie shop? He squeezed his eyes tight, burrowing in his mind to evoke the individual. All he could remember was a heavy trench coat that overwhelmed the one's small form.

"Splendid," Ichabod grumbled to himself, burying his face into the upholstery. "More mysteries."

* * *

Hours flew past like a frantic bird pursued by a predator. Ichabod found himself doodling images in his notebook instead of dwelling in other people's recollections. The smoky portraits had a similar guise to the Barkers in the translucent photograph that was still stowed away in his jacket. Boredom was inevitable when trapped in a moving vehicle. 

Ichabod glimpsed outside for the umpteenth time, searching for an inspiration for a new sketch. The mountainous emerald hills undulated across the countryside, specs of pastel blooms sprinkled over the stalks of coarse grass. Splinters of burnished moonlight were chiseled in the gray clouds like lines of silver against a dull boulder. He peeked at his pocket watch, astounded to discover that it was twilight. He sighed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Unfortunately, sleep was most likely out of his grasps. According to Mr. Samuels, the two boarded a ship and sailed away. If luck was on his side, the same ship would come the exact moment he arrived, and he could interrogate the two to his heart's desires.

Needless to say, this chance was very, very slim. Ichabod sighed jadedly as sleep's soothing fingers closed his dark eyes, engulfing him in sleep.

* * *

Ichabod squinted in the overwhelming sunlight. Brighton's weather was much more enjoyable than London's cold and dreary atmosphere. The sun was like a daffodil blooming in an ocean of blue. London and Brighton had a thing in common though: the lack of peace and privacy. People swarmed the cities like busy bees, jabbering so fast their words were messily meshed together. Archaic buildings like the famous St. Nicholas Church and the exotic Indian-style Royal Pavilion was easily spotted. The stretching beaches shone grainy and white in the blinding sunlight. Ichabod sighed. At least there was a change of scenery. 

Ichabod stifled a yawn and tottered towards the deck on sleepy legs. He couldn't sleep at all last night because his mind was working furiously as he dug his head into his notebook. Not only that, but Ichabod had grown to imagine the story of Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett, even Mrs. Lovett's abrupt end. Needless to say, the thought of it strengthened his insomnia even more.

Ichabod rubbed his eyes as he arrived at the docks. The air reeked of dead fish and salty water. The waves that lapped the damp wood sent sprays of ocean mist left a salty aftertaste in his mouth. Ichabod gazed around, wondering if any of the bedraggled sailors were trustworthy enough to interrogate. Wasn't there someone who was in charge of the docks and oversaw what ships came and went? He tentatively approached a gruff sailor whose scraggly beard could be easily mistaken as a tumbleweed.

"Excuse me sir," Ichabod said, clearing his throat. "I was wondering if you know anything about the ship, the Flying Poodle?"

The sailor chewed slowly on his wad of tobacco, squinting at Ichabod as if wondering if he was just a mirage. He finally spoke, his voice coated with phlegm.

"Ya playin' with me, boy? There's no ship called the Flying Poodle."

"No, well, actually," stammered Ichabod, rather flustered. "There was a gentleman in London who informed me about a ship called the Flying Poodle, though that's probably not the ship's exact name. Is there any ship that has the words 'flying' or 'poodle' in it?"

The man smacked his lips, tangling his fingers in the beard. He leaned against a tower of empty barrels, contemplating his answer.

"Ya might be talkin' bout the Flying Pearl," he grunted. "S'a cargo ship."

"Yes, that must be the one!" Ichabod agreed feverishly. "Can you tell me of its whereabouts?"

"Ya are a bit late," the man said apologetically. "The ship left this port three weeks ago."

Ichabod's heart dropped. His chances had just escaped from his grasp once more. He tiredly ran his fingers through his feathery hair and sighed, struggling to fight the disappointment.

"Yeah, it stopped 'ere three weeks ago," rambled on the sailor, oblivious to Ichabod's obvious frustration. "Went t' Ireland fo' their business. They're stoppin' at Le Havre in France next."

Ichabod's heart skipped a beat. Le Havre, France? That was just across the English Channel. Hope flooded Ichabod as he whirled around, fighting the urge to grab the man's broad shoulders and shake the answer out of him.

"When are they arriving at Le Havre?" he asked hurriedly. The man jumped at Ichabod's sudden outburst.

"Uh...I'd say they be there in at least two weeks...maybe less..."

"This is fantastic!" Ichabod exclaimed, joy intertwining with his voice. "I can't believe my luck! Oh, I better get going..."

The man gaped at Ichabod as if he sprouted another head. "Wot in the devil's name are you talkin' about?"

"Sir," Ichabod immediately said, ignoring the man's question. "Tell me. How long does it take to get to Le Havre?"

**Guess what characters are coming up in the next few chapters... **

**I hope you all tried your best to save the poor little ward from getting killed by her father.**

**However, 93 pretty little wards were murdered last night. :(**

**I'd write an obituary, but it would be too long. **

**If you review, you'll get a dessert. However, if you don't review, a hot singing barber would get laryngitis and lose his singing voice. Poor barber :(.**

**The menu is: treacle tart, pound cake, sponge cake, knickerbocker glory, sticky toffee pudding, Eton Mess, bread pudding, bananoffee pie, arctic roll, trifle, deep-fried Mars Bars, Toby's loaf of bread, tiramisu, zabaglione, canno****li, ****Génoise Cake,**** semifreddo, and pignolata.**


	10. Le Havre

Ichabod ate his small croissant in silence, gazing at the rising sun in Le Havre. Unfortunately for him, Le Havre was just as bustling and noisy as London and Brighton, which rendered his thinking process immensely. Not only that, but he felt like an outcast ostracized by the French. It wasn't surprising though: he spoke little French and his accent was atrocious. Not only that, but the trip on the ship wasn't pleasant either. It only took a matter of days, but that didn't ease his seasickness and fatigue. He still felt the eyes of aghast sailors boring a hole on his back as he retched over the rail. It wasn't pleasant.

But if that week was long, then this week was lasting an eternity. Ichabod wasn't sure when the Flying Pearl would arrive, but it was taking an awfully long time. He had trouble conversing with the French and trying to request things. He still remembered that less a week ago, he tried to ask for a room in the inn. For some odd reason, the innkeeper thought Ichabod was saying, "Can I have good-bye in the inn?" It was only with the help of a portly gentleman who knew English that he was able to get a room.

Ichabod stuffed the last bite of the croissant into his mouth before sliding out of his chair and heading towards the door. Though he preferred not to embarrass himself with his choppy French and New York style, it was dull to mull around in his room. He nervously stepped out into the bright sunshine, which was now blinding after the dreary weather in London. Jabbers and shouts of incomprehensible French rang out at every direction. Ichabod timidly glanced around at the crowds of people flooding into the streets, uncertain of what to do. He immediately regretted not studying his French harder.

_Think of it this way, _Ichabod thought bitterly to himself. _I'd rather be in Le Havre than Sleepy Hollow..._

"Garçon, pourquoi vous tenez-vous dans au centre de la route?"

Ichabod whirled around to be face-to-face with an aristocratic couple. The man had a bristly pencil mustache that would probably hurt if you pricked it. A thick monocle was shoved in his garish blue eye that stared at Ichabod.

_What did he just say? _Ichabod thought uneasily. He gulped and straightened his composure.

"Euh...désolé, je non parlez français."

The richly dressed couple giggled at the distraught Ichabod before ambling away. Ichabod felt shame and humiliation creep up on him as bystanders started to chuckle uncontrollably. He hurriedly ducked his head and stride towards the deck, his pale cheeks burning. What did he do? Did he say a wrong word? Was it his terrible accent? Or did he say something derogatory?

Ichabod scuffed his feet on the cobblestone sidewalk, concealing himself from the rest of Le Havre. This whole week was a complete disaster, thanks to his lack of knowledge. Just yesterday, he went to buy a pain au chocolat and it ended rather disastrously.

_"Excusez moi, est-ce que je peux avoir un chocolat d'Au de douleur ?"_

_"Vous voulez la douleur ? Si vous exigez..."_

Needless to say, the results weren't very pretty. Ichabod's arm still smarted and he still didn't get a pain au chocolat. All he got was a bar of chocolate...

As if trying to figure out a murder mystery wasn't enough.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Ichabod spotted a grand ship. He frowned and narrowed his eyes. The ship was pitching rhythmically in the water as sailors vigorously tied the it to the dock. Others were hauling boxes damp with seawater down to the pier where impatient men hurled them into the back of their wagons. Ichabod crept closer to the edge of the dock, straining to catch a glimpse of the ship's name.

There, in peeling gold letters that glinted in the sunlight, was the name. _The Flying Pearl._

Ichabod's heart leaped into his throat. Anticipation and jitteriness electrocuted through Ichabod's limbs at the sight. There it was! The ship, the answer to all (or most) of his questions! Ichabod could barely contain himself as the sailors dispersed and darted towards different directions to run an errand or find a decent meal. He crouched behind a tower of barrels, searching for a girl that could be Johanna. He scanned the deck, quickly dismissing the burly men who chucked cargo onto the deck.

Out of the blue, he saw a slender sailor scurry off the ship, clutching the hand of a young boy. The sailor sported a faded simple gown that was speckled with patches. Her flaxen hair was piled neatly on her head, hidden under a brown cap to keep flyaway strands away. Her snowy face was sweet and lovely, but it was her eyes that drew Ichabod. Soft, deep chocolate eyes that were the mirror images of Benjamin Barker's. Even the little child inherited his grandfather's eyes.

Icahbod drew in a deep breath and slipped out of his hiding spot. His mind was racing and soon his palms were sweaty. How was he supposed to approach her? What if she refused to tell him anything? He was a complete stranger, after all.

"Excuse me?" he asked tentatively. The young girl quickly whirled around and faced Ichabod, a puzzled expression on her face.

"Yes?" she asked warily, her voice soft like a butterfly. She scrutinized him carefully, as if she recognized him. "...D-don't I know you...?"

Ichabod swallowed. "I don't believe we have met before, Miss...?"

"Johanna. Johanna Hope," she answered deliberately. "How may I help you?"

"I was hoping that..." Ichabod figured that his professional tone may not help him at the moment. "I was hoping that you would tell me about Sweeney Todd."

Johanna's faced paled. Her wide eyes gawked at Ichabod as she clutched her young son's hands tightly. Ichabod felt unease nip his soul as he awkwardly glanced down at his feet.

"Go follow your father," she whispered to the little boy. The lad glanced perplexedly at her before scampering off to follow a young man. Johanna straightened, her eyes burning with mistrust.

"What are you talking about?" she whispered.

This was certainly a nasty predicament Ichabod had landed himself in. "I-I'm sorry, Miss Johanna...but I was hoping you could tell me what happened to Mr. Todd. I've uh...heard that you and he uh...went through an event together..."

"Who told you that I was ever involved with Sweeney Todd?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "Why would you want to know?"

Suddenly, a devious ploy popped in Ichabod's mind. He cleared his throat and tweaked his voice to make it caked with remorse and pain.

"I'm sorry for bothering you, Miss, but you see..." His eyes, glossy with supposed grief, stared down at his feet. "I am Ichabod Todd. My brother is Sweeney Todd."

All right, so the idea sounded a lot more convincing in his mind, but what else was he supposed to do? Ichabod had a feeling that people would open up more to a mourning relative of the victim than a stuffy police constable.

"What?" Johanna said, her fair eyebrows raised.

"I haven't seen my brother for years, and I don't know what happened to him. People told me you knew about him, so I was desperately hoping that you could...you could perhaps tell me what happened."

His eyes were glued to a rotting splinter on the docks, so Ichabod wasn't sure if Johanna bought his impromptu lie or not. There was an awkward silence, and Ichabod clamped his mouth shut, awaiting Johanna's reaction.

"You..." she started before swallowing. Her voice soon dropped to a breathy whisper. "You do look like him..."

Yes! She did buy it! In his mind, Ichabod did a jig of delight, but remained forlorn on the outside. "Everyone used to say how much we looked like each other..."

Ichabod was quite astonished. He never knew he was such an adept liar. He slowly glanced up, his eyes welling with premature tears. It wasn't hard; all he had to do was imagine Katrina's head chopped off by the Headless Horseman.

"Please, miss?" he implored, his voice now hoarse with unshed tears. "I never knew my parents...he was the only person I had and now I don't know where he is..."

At the mention of his supposed 'unknown parents', Johanna's face softened and sympathy was painted on her features. She sighed and glanced around before clutching Ichabod's wrist and pulling him towards the ship.

"You better come inside," she whispered. "I don't want to talk about it on the streets."

**I know that my French is really choppy (I'm taking Spanish...) and a native French speaker probably won't understand my poor grammar...but I blame Babelfish. **

**Translations: First set of French:**

**_"Garçon, pourquoi vous tenez-vous dans au centre de la route?_" Boy, why are you standing in the middle of the street?**

**_"Euh...désolé, je non parlez français." Euh, sorry, I don't speak French._**

**_"Excusez moi, est-ce que je peux avoir un chocolat d'Au de douleur ?"_Excuse me, may I have a chocolate with the pain?**** (Ichabod meant Pain au Chocolat, which means Bread of Chocolate, but he accidentally translated 'pain' literally as in hurt or agony, so...**

**_"Vous voulez la douleur ? Si vous exigez..." _You want pain? If you insist...****  
**

**If you review, you'll get a dessert. However, if you don't review, a hot police constable's mother and lover gets murdered, and then gets his own head chopped off.**

**Now adding French pastries to the menu! After all, we're in Le Havre... **

**The menu is: treacle tart, pound cake, sponge cake, knickerbocker glory, sticky toffee pudding, Eton Mess, bread pudding, bananoffee pie, arctic roll, trifle, deep-fried Mars Bars, Toby's loaf of bread, tiramisu, zabaglione, canno****li, ****Génoise Cake,**** semifreddo, pignolata, crepe, Ichabod's pain au chocolat, French silk pie, lemon millefeuille, Gateau roll, eclair, macaron, ****canelé**, **tarte tatin, peach melba, Oeufs a la neige, and floating island!**


	11. Johanna Recollects

Johanna discreetly led Ichabod into the ship, hiding him from the fellow sailors who bade her hello. Ichabod felt his heart thumping wildly against his chest, wondering vaguely if Johanna could feel it against her back. What if this was all a ploy? What if she really knew the truth, and was going to murder him when they were alone?

He timidly climbed down into the area below deck. The dark and dingy room was hot and damp. The air was thick and stifling with the stench of sweat and rotten fish. Ichabod swallowed, the sour air leaving a disgusting taste in his mouth. He awkwardly sat down on a chair, resting his hands on the rickety table. Johanna lit a lantern, her fingers fumbling with the matches.

"When was the last time you saw your brother?" she asked.

_Is she testing me?_ Ichabod thought nervously. He cleared his throat, searching for the appropriate answer in his mind.

"Twelve years ago," he said gravelly, his voice low with 'hidden melancholy'.

"How were you separated from him?"

"We were on a ship, heading from Sweden to Southampton, England. But suddenly, our ship was caught in a terrible storm and it got in a wreck. I was lucky; another boat who survived the storm managed to pull me out of the water, but I lost my brother and everyone else in the ship. I thought him dead for a long time, until I found out that he had been in London ten years ago, and that a certain Johanna knew what happened to him."

Johanna bit her lip as she sat next to him, her eyes locked onto her hands. "What did he look like back then?"

"Well, I'm not sure if he would look the same by the time he met you but..." Ichabod wracked his brain to remember the photograph of the corpses that Mr. Samuels showed him. It was rather hard to give a description of someone who you saw drenched in blood. "He was pale...and had dark untamed hair. Rather tall, too, and dark eyes. Is that how he looked when you saw him?"

Johanna nodded, playing with her fingers absentmindedly. "Were you very close to him?"

"Yes, indeed," Ichabod fibbed. "He was the only family I knew."

Johanna looked downcast, her brown eyes gauzed with sadness. "I'm afraid that you won't see your brother again."

Ichabod deliberately stiffened and clenched the table, his eyes widening in feigned shock. "What do you mean? Tell me everything."

Johanna's eyes flickered towards his. They welled with tears of sorrow and regret. "I saw him dead...in the bakehouse in London."

"Please tell me the whole story," pleaded Ichabod. "What happened? Why?"

"I was in his shop one night...he wasn't there when I was. I was alone, Anthony was fetching a carriage so we could run-I mean, go to Brighton. But then I saw a stranger come, a beggar woman. I was afraid that she might harm me, so I hid in a trunk. She said something about...a beadle, and a devil baker, or something like that. I couldn't hear it very quickly, and she mumbled it. But then...the door opened again, and I heard Mr. Todd's voice.

"He demanded why she was here, and she started shouting about the devil's wife and the sign of the devil. Then she said something like..."Don't I know you mister?" Before I knew it, I heard dreadful gurgling!" Johanna wrung her hands, her face paling considerably. "It was so awful, like she was choking. And then there was silence. I was so scared, I wasn't sure what to do. B-but...then the door opened again and I heard my adopted father...Judge Turpin. They started to talk about something, but I couldn't understand. Suddenly, Mr. Todd...he shouted a name that Judge Turpin said earlier..."

"What name?" asked Ichabod quietly.

"I...I can't quite remember," murmured Johanna apologetically. "It started with a "B", I know that...ended with an 'er' sound. But then I heard that awful gurgling again, and splattering of liquid! I was so terribly frightened, I didn't know what was going on out there. I gently opened the lid of the trunk to see the w-whole room splattered with...blood..." At that, Johanna was deathly ashen and her eyes were wide with fear, as if the haunting memory replayed before her. "Then...I saw Mr. Todd, completely soaked in blood. He was holding a razor, and it was c-covered with blood. He pulled me out of the trunk and put me in the bloody chair." She shook her head, covering her face with her white hands. "H-he was about to kill me. He had his razor high in the air and everything! I was frozen, I couldn't move or even breath. I was so certain I was going to die right then and there..."

"But you didn't," added Ichabod. Johanna shook her head, her delicate body trembling.

"Someone...a woman...screamed somewhere downstairs. He froze and then lowered his razor. He...he told me to forget his face and he disappeared. I don't know how long I was sitting there, frozen like a statue but...I finally ran out, determined to get the police and find out what was going on. Anthony had come back with a carriage, and I told him everything that happened. He didn't believe me at first, but I showed him the barber shop covered in blood. We both ran to the police, but at first they didn't believe us. Finally they came and went inside the bakehouse..." Crystal tears gushed out of Johanna's eyes, streaming down her finely chiseled cheeks. Ichabod immediately regretted digging the horrid memories out of the poor girl.

"There were dead people everywhere...and a meat grinder with corpses in it. Judge Turpin, the Beadle Bamford...Mr. Todd. They were all dead, their throats slit and in a pool of blood. Mr. Todd was cradling a beggar woman, whose throat was also slit. The sewer grate was open too...so the police went in t-to find the murderer, but they didn't find anyone. It was so horrible, to see all those people dead..." Johanna, covered her eyes with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Ichabod's heart was clenched with sympathy and sorrow as he rubbed her small back, brushing the tears off of her smooth cheek.

"Johanna, I'm sorry I'm late, but Thomas needed to do some private business, when I was running to get some bread I tripped and found out I stepped on a cat and-"A young man with light hair flew into the room, carrying a loaf of bread in his arms. His eyes widened at the sight of his weeping lover and Ichabod. In a swift motion, the lad pinned Ichabod to the wall, his face contorted with fury.

"Who are you? What have you done to Johanna?"

"I-" Ichabod choked out, struggling to uncurl the man's fingers from his neck. Anthony threw him against the opposite wall before rushing to Johanna. Ichabod's head banged onto the wall and he saw a hundred stars.

"Johanna, are you all right? Are you hurt? What has this stranger done to you?" The words flew clumsily out of the boy's mouth as he hugged Johanna. "Stay back!" he snarled to Ichabod as he dizzily clambered up on unsteady feet.

"No, no, Anthony, it's all right," insisted Johanna, wiping tears from her eyes. "I was being a crybaby as always..."

"What happened, Johanna? Who is he, why is he here?"

"He means no harm, Anthony, it's quite fine. I was only crying because I was...remembering things," Johanna assured him. "He's Ichabod Todd, the...well, the brother of Sweeney Todd..."

Anthony froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. "How do you know he's the brother of Mr. Todd?"

"He looks like him, and the information he gave me sounded accurate..." Johanna said meekly, bowing her head low in shame.

"But what's he doing here?" Anthony asked.

Ichabod rubbed the swelling lump on his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Anthony, for intruding and worrying you. I was here to find out what happened to Mr...my brother. I thought he was dead for so long, but now that I found out he's alive-well, was, I was desperate for his whereabouts."

"He's dead now," Anthony said rather regretfully. "He's gone. I'm sorry, Mr. Todd, but I think that your searching was in vain."

Ichabod nodded solemnly, glancing apologetically at Anthony. Suddenly, at the sight of the young boy, he remembered a very important detail that Mr. Samuels had gave him so long ago...

_"Well, the girl is Johanna, Turpin's adopted daughter, as I already told you," Mr. Samuels admitted. "But the boy was a sailor that had arrived in London recently with Mr. Todd."_

_...a sailor that had arrived in London with Mr. Todd..._

_...arrived in London with Mr. Todd..._

_**ARRIVED IN LONDON WITH MR. TODD...**  
_

Ichabod suddenly yelped, frightening the skin off of Anthony and Johanna. Of course! Why didn't he realize it? _Anthony_ was the one who brought Mr. Todd to England!

"You're the one who brought my brother to London!" Ichabod exclaimed. "Weren't you the one? The sailor?"

Anthony had a bewildered expression on his face, standing protectively in front of Johanna. "Yes..." he answered slowly. "How did you know?"

"A police told me when I was searching for my brother," Ichabod said feverishly. "Please, tell me what happened! How did you find him? Where was he?"

"What difference does it make?" frowned Anthony, warily studying Ichabod from afar. "He's dead."

"Yes, but I am absolutely desperate to find out what happened to him and how he survived. Even if he is dead now," Ichabod lowered his eyes in pain on cue. "I want to know what had happened to him and how he survived."

Anthony licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting to Johanna for aid. "Why should I tell you?"

"Please, Anthony?" Johanna implored, her heart fraught with sorrow for the lonesome constable. "His brother was all he had..."

Anthony gazed in Johanna's grief-stricken eyes and felt sympathy and compassion flood him. Anthony swallowed and sighed before finally stepping towards Ichabod, sitting on a stool and beckoning Johanna and Ichabod to do the same. Ichabod cautiously seated himself on a splintery chair as Johanna gracefully sat down next to him.

"I can't tell you how much I'm grateful-"

"You don't need to. It's all right," sighed Anthony, peeling stringy splinters off the rough stool.

"How much do you want to know?" he asked.

"Everything."

* * *

** Did you know that every time you don't review, a pussycat gets baked in a pie?**

**T'is true. **

**But if you review, you get a dessert! **

**Now adding French pastries to the menu! After all, we're in Le Havre... **

**The menu is: treacle tart, pound cake, sponge cake, knickerbocker glory, sticky toffee pudding, Eton Mess, bread pudding, bananoffee pie, arctic roll, trifle, deep-fried Mars Bars, Toby's loaf of bread, tiramisu, zabaglione, canno****li, ****Génoise Cake,**** semifreddo, pignolata, crepe, Ichabod's pain au chocolat, French silk pie, lemon millefeuille, Gateau roll, eclair, macaron, ****canelé**, **tarte tatin, peach melba, Oeufs a la neige, and floating island!**

** WHO WATCHED THE OSCARS?! I was happy that Sweeney Todd won art direction, though rather disappointed they didn't win costume or Best Leading Actor. I thought Johnny Depp did an astounding job, but I can't say much because I never watched Daniel Day-Lewis perform...****  
**


	12. Anthony Reminiscences

Ichabod couldn't believe his luck as he fidgeted feverishly in his seat. Anthony sipped a glass of musty water, glancing cagily at the constable from time to time. Ichabod waited patiently for the young man to speak.

"What part do you want to know?"

"Everything. From the beginning. As if you were telling a story," Ichabod answered quickly. Anthony nodded, rapping his fingers nervously on the table.

"Like a story, yes? Well, unlike most fairy tales, this one doesn't have a particularly happy ending..."

_Anthony Hope was thoroughly certain that the world had ended beyond the gnarled iron gates of his town. Forever had he been convinced that Satan and his devils lurked in the thick forest, nestled in the trees and snaring anyone that passed them into hell. That's why most people who left the town never came back. _

_Despite the bloodcurdling tales of demons, Anthony desperately wanted nothing more than to escape this wretched village. In here, his own freedom and chances of valor and contentment was automatically stripped away from him just because he was the son of the poor cobbler. He was always forced to idly stand aside when the path to the pursuit of happiness was before him, letting those richer than he to pass. Anthony was taught to snivel in the coattails of greater men like a coward, and let them master his life and future. He couldn't stand it anymore. Anthony felt that if he had one more wealthy man shove him aside the road with his cane just so the richer could pass, if another moneyed lady would cluck her tongue sadly at the poor boy whose family seldom ate, he would run away from the cursed town. _

_The idea of running away thrilled and terrified Anthony, who was fourteen at the time. What if the stories of devils were true? What if there was nothing on the other side of the gate, and he was caged in this prison forever? Anthony shook his head at the last thought. Of course there was more to the world that this place. After all, the supposed devils had to live somewhere, right?_

_It was the dead of night when Anthony stuffed his sack with his small possessions and kissed his parents good night for the last time. The boy breathed in the clean air, free of any rich eau de cologne. His heart rejoiced and saddened at the prospect of leaving as he discreetly scampered from his home, his feet barely making a sound. He never considered this hovel a cozy home until he was about to leave it all behind. Anthony stood before the twisting metal gates and hesitated. He knew very well that he would probably never see his family again, or his home, or any of his few friend ever again. Was the chance of succeeding in life really worth the risk? Yes. Without looking back, Anthony raced out of the town and never saw it again._

_At first Anthony was terribly afraid. How else would a poor young boy feel after leaving his home forever and now trapped in an unknown place? He had no idea where the nearest towns or cities were, or even what he would do after this. Anthony's food supply was already running low after the first week (he felt too guilty stealing any more food from his family, considering they hardly ever enjoyed a satisfying meal), and he hadn't seen another human being for days. He was very grateful that he knew how to use a knife and managed to find slow-footed animals for food._

_It was only with the help of a kindly traveling family was Anthony able to reach the vast city of Liverpool, England. The world felt like a completely stranger to him and it was frightening. It was terrifying to him that there was a much larger world outside his small town's imprisoning gates. The city treated him with polite unfamiliarity, like strangers greeting each other warmly and then saying no more. Anthony preferred it this way. He didn't want people reminding him of his place and misfortune._

_But he still felt guilt burden him like a plague. He never thought of the welfare of his family until now. After all, Anthony did help put bread on the table with the little money he got from the butcher, but now that he was gone, the Hopes would be lucky to have a spoonful of gruel. But Anthony swore never to return, even if he was presently living in the mouth of Hell. The miserable village was most likely the domain of demons. But whenever Anthony was asked by nosy persons why he ran off, he would readily answer that he ran away so that his family would have one less mouth to feed. Even if that wasn't true. _

_But it wasn't the cities that called to Anthony. It was the ocean. He never saw the massive body of water before, and marveled at its never-ending splendor. He enviously spied ships that sailed off into the uncharted and unknown, and listened intently to visiting sailors who recounted their magnificent adventures through storms, pirates, and fanciful sightings of the Flying Dutchman. Anthony knew in his heart that he didn't want to be confined in a single city, still unaware of the world around him. It was then that Anthony was determined to become a sailor._

_At first, many of the ships refused him. Who wanted a slight boy who never came close to the ocean before? It took almost a year of training and self-teaching till Anthony was finally part of the crew of the Black Cardinal. He was only fifteen and was the youngest member of the Cardinal. It would be two more years till he met Sweeney Todd._

_Anthony never regretted becoming a sailor, even when facing hunger, discomfort, and thrashing storms. He learned valuable lessons that would stay with him, like how to fish, sail, tie a rope, repair broken parts, use a gun, and of course, how to swear. He didn't even imagine backing out when the other crew members decided to test his durability by beating and urinating on him one silent night when the moon was hidden in the folds of night. After he managed to keep his ground and remained conscious, the sailors welcomed the young boy with open arms, though Anthony still felt wary around them. _

_After two years of sailing through the world and exploring its wonders, the Cardinal was heading back to London after taking a stop by Singapore. Suddenly, a fierce storm swallowed the ship up, sending them spinning in churning waters and in the midst of violent storms. Anthony hastily followed the other sailors and fastened the cannons and reeled in the sails. The ship pitched ferociously, under the mercy and guidance of the vicious ocean. Pearly shocks of lightning tore the sky in half, only inches from setting the ship on fire. _

_Anthony squinted in the thundering rain as he assisted the others in reeling in the sails. Not too far away, a peculiar morphing light flickered and sputtered. Ignoring the incredulous and distraught yells of the other men, Anthony strained to identify the phenomenon. _

_"Fire!" he yelled immediately, pointing to the gasping flames. "There's a fire in the middle of the ocean!"_

_"What're ya talkin' abou', laddie?" growled an older sailor. _

_"Look over there! There's a fire! A ship must've caught on fire! Lightning must've hit it!" Anthony exclaimed, drenched to the bone. "There must be people still aboard, people who need our help!"_

_"We can't 'elp other people, boy!" howled another. "Unless you want t' lead us t' our own deaths too!"_

_Anthony glanced desperately to the captain, his eyes begging. "Please? What if we were on fire and needed help, and some other ship just decided to leave us to our deaths?"_

_"Then I'll say they're pre'y smar'," muttered Hennesey, one of Anthony's friends. _

_"It's not like we can get close to them!" the captain pointed out, his voice strained from barking orders all night. "The ocean takes us wherever she wants us to be! We can't control the ship when we're in a storm!"_

_Anthony knew that there was no hope in saving the dying ship. His heart wrung in pity and remorse as he wrenched his eyes away from the fire that was gradually quenched by the rain. He vigorously clung to the ropes as another wave shoved the boat's side and nearly toppled the whole ship over. He shivered in the cold as the rain and ocean water soaked his entire body, squeezing his eyes tight as the inaudible pitiful cries of the sailors left in that burning ship echoed in his ears..._

_It wasn't long till the ocean finally flattened and the black ink in the clouds drained away and left grayish hues in the sky. Anthony's teeth chattered as he wrapped a patched quilt around his scrawny body, praying that the sun would peek out of the clouds and dry him. He sneezed, feeling a hint of a cold creeping up on him. _

_"Tha's got t' be the worst storm I've e'er been in," muttered Hennesey as he downed a bottle of rum in a single gulp. "And I've been sailin' since I wos thirteen."_

_Anthony didn't speak. His mind still wandered to the dead ship. He could picture the remnants of the charred wood bobbing in the ocean, while frozen corpses floated nearby, their glassy eyes glaring accusingly at him and their hands clawing out of the inky waters. _

_"Aw, 'Ope, don't tell me ya still thinkin' abou' tha' ship," sighed Hennesey. "Ya know we couldn't do nothin'. It's 'ard t' steer the Cardinal durin' a storm."_

_"I know," sighed Anthony as he stretched his frigid legs. "But I still feel sorry for them."_

_"Well, s'like tha' code," Hennesey said casually. "Those who fall be'ind, are lef' be'ind."_

_"I thought that was the pirate's code," Anthony pointed out, peering over the rail. _

_Hennesey shrugged. "Same difference. I secre'ly think o' meself as a pirate. Wos' the difference, anyways?"_

_Hennesey's voice dwindled away into silence as he gawked at the thing Anthony was pointing to. In the middle of the black ocean, there was an extremely pale shape clutching to a charred piece of wood. Anthony gasped when he realized that the white ghost was a person. Hennesey yelped as Anthony shoved him out of the way, dashing to the captain._

_"Captain Linnet!" Anthony cried, nearly tripping over the hems of his blanket. "There's a person in the water! Someone hanging onto a piece of wood?"_

_The other sailors gaped at Anthony before scampering to the side of the ship. Captain Linnet frowned before following in suit._

_"It is a person!" exclaimed a stout sailor named Jameson. "Is he dead?"_

_"Must be from that burning ship of Hope's."_

_"Wot should we do, cap'in?" asked Hennesey. "Bring 'im in?"_

_"I think we should just leave him there. He looks dead to me," Jameson suggested. The older men nodded in response. Anthony frantically shook his head.  
_

_ "We can't just leave someone to die!" Anthony protested. Ignoring the other crew members, he scrambled into a rowboat and tugged at the ropes, slowly lowering himself down to the ocean._

_"You're daft, 'Ope!" Hennesey hollered as he fumbled to grip the ropes, reluctantly lowering his friend to the watery surface. "Why do ya always 'ave t' be the 'ero?" _

_Anthony ignored Hennesey's words, clutching the sides of the splintery boat. He felt anxiety and curiosity flood in him as the small boat hit the water surface. The semi-conscious man was tightly clutching the battered piece of wood, as if afraid to let go. A thousand questions resounded in Anthony's head as he reached out to pull the man into the boat. He yelped with fright when his hand grazed the man's skin. It was as cold as marble._

Maybe he is dead_, Anthony thought to himself. Nevertheless, he hauled the man into the rowboat, uncurling the damp driftwood from his hands.  
_

_The man was so pale it seemed as if Death itself had painted his face. His dark eyes were half-open, darting around groggily and squinting in the gray light. The stranger's hair was peculiar, raven black with a shock of white. His breathing was there, but very shallow. Anthony breathed a sigh of relief: the man was alive._

_"He's alive!" Anthony yelled. "Bring me back up! The man's alive, but freezing!"_

_Hennesey and Jameson hastily tugged the ropes. With a sudden jerk, the rowboat slowly lifted off of the ocean. Anthony bent down to the man and laid his own blanket on the stranger's shivering body. Anthony quaked at how icy the man felt. Would he even last the night?_

_The rowboat finally crashed back onto deck. Anthony stumbled out as Jameson hauled the man onto a makeshift nest of spare blankets. Jameson shook his head as he lay the man onto the quilts._

_"He's as light as a feather, and as cold as the Devil's heart. Methinks he doesn't have much of a chance." _

_"He has a chance," Anthony said with assurance, though a prick of doubt sparked in the back of his mind. He turned to Hennesey, who was peering at the stranger with curiosity."Go heat up some of the pease porridge, won't you? The man's probably half starved." Hennesey hesitated before tramping below deck. Anthony bent down to the stranger's side. _

_"Sir, can you hear me?" he asked tentatively. Just as the sentence slipped out of his mouth, Anthony inwardly slapped himself in the forehead. What a stupid question to ask a man who's half dead! _

_The man feebly stirred under the scratchy blanket. His lips moved, but his voice was too weak to utter a sound. The dark penetrating eyes started intently at Anthony, but Anthony felt that the stranger wasn't really seeing him. _

_"L-Lucy?" he croaked, his voice weak and faint. "Johanna?"_

_Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was caught up. The poor man must've thought Anthony was his family. The pale stranger slowly closed his eyes and sank into unconsciousness. Hennesey rushed over, a steaming bowl of colorless porridge in his hands._

_"Not sure if the bugger would wan' this soup," he mumbled, wrinkling his nose. "Johnson made it this time, and you know as well as I do tha' 'e's not the bes' o' the bes' cooks." _

_"It doesn't matter," Anthony said. "I don't think he'll care what it tastes like. He looks as if he hasn't eaten for years." _

_"Who is this bloke?" Hennesey asked to no one in particular as he handed the bowl to Anthony. "An' where is 'e from? Mos' people don't end up in the ocean withou' reason."  
_

_"I think I found the reason," muttered Jameson, gaping at the sight before him. Anthony glanced up curiously._

_"What's wrong?" he asked, clambering onto his feet. Before he even asked the question, the answer met him. Scorched remains of a crumbling ship drifted on the black watery surface, tainting the ocean with death. Several frozen corpses, just as Anthony had imagined, were clutching to pieces of the destroyed ship, waiting frantically for a help that never came. Anthony felt all the blood drain from his face as he gawked at the grave. _

_"Look at tha'!" exclaimed Hennesey. His bony finger pointed to a shredded fragment of a cloth that swirled with the water. The hems were singed black and the edges were disintegrating off. The once bold pigments were faded and ashen like the sky above. Anthony narrowed his eyes to get a better look at it and gasped. _

_"That's an English flag!" Anthony called out. "The ship was from England!"_

_"No, not from England, lad," murmured Jameson. "See those clothes them dead people are wearing? It's clothes that English people comin' from Australia wear. S'most likely an Australian ship." _

_"We're nowhere near Australia, though," frowned Anthony._

_"The ship must've been 'eadin' to England too, till..." Hennesey's voice faltered. Anthony backed away from the grave and turned to the unconscious man. He vaguely wondered that if his eyes just grazed over the poor man clinging to the piece of wood, the man's fate would've been just like everyone else on the ship._

_It was unknown to anyone that they were aiding a murderer._

"Is everything all right, Mr. Todd?"

Ichabod swallowed bile and nodded. He rubbed his forehead, his brain pounding painfully against his skull. He couldn't believe what he had just heard.

"You're certain that uh, my brother said the names Lucy and Johanna?" Ichabod inquired. Johanna stiffened beside him as Anthony nodded solemnly. "And that he was from Australia?"

"Well, the boat was obviously from Australia, and there's no doubt he was from that ship, so..."

Ichabod briskly nodded again, his heart battering his chest. Anthony narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the constable.

"You aren't the brother of Sweeney Todd, are you?" he demanded. Ichabod quickly looked up, cursing himself. Apparently his 'mourning brother' façade had slid off of his features. He sighed with defeat, knowing there was no way wheedling out of this sticky web of lies.

"Spiritually, perhaps, but scientifically, I'm afraid...not," Ichabod confessed.

"Why are you here?" Anthony growled. "Who sent you?"

"No one sent me to Le Havre," Ichabod said truthfully. "I came here on my own accord."

"It's not every day a stranger comes up to me and steals our memories," Anthony said venomously. "Tell the truth. Why did you want to know about Sweeney Todd?"

Ichabod squirmed in his seat, feeling Anthony's furious gaze burn a hole right through him. "I'm a police constable from New York, Mr. Hope, and was sent to figure out the mystery of Sweeney Todd."

"Why did they suddenly decide now?" Anthony snapped. "You shouldn't be prying in memories that aren't yours, _Mr._ _Todd._ Our lives and memories aren't yours to interfere. Who else did you interrogate before us, eh? Tens? Thousands?"

"I believe you're overreacting-" Ichabod tried to say.

"Anthony, please control yourself!" Johanna pleaded, gripping the nook of Anthony's arm. Anthony shook his head, clenching his teeth. "I'll send him away, all right? I'll send him away..."

Before Anthony could respond, Johanna quickly grasped Ichabod's wrist and pulled him towards the ladder. Ichabod cast a fleeting apologetic look at Anthony, his mind imploring for forgiveness but his tongue frozen with fear. Anthony looked like a defeated man on the stool, covering his face with his hands. Guilt ate away Ichabod's soul as Johanna led him out of the ship.

"Perhaps it is best you leave this Sweeney Todd business alone," Johanna murmured. "It's too much for us, for anyone related to the incident, to remember it. Please, just tell your police back home that it isn't possible."

Ichabod was unsure of what to say. He couldn't just give up on the case. What if he got fired, and then Katrina and their child was forced to live on the streets, or jailed? He couldn't risk it at all.

"I'm sorry," Ichabod muttered meekly. "I...I didn't mean to bring any trouble. I was just so...curious about what happened that I wasn't thinking, and lied."

Johanna shook her head as if brushing the apology away. She escorted him away from the docks, peering anxiously over her shoulder as if expecting Anthony to come wielding a cutlass and rushing towards them. She finally stopped, motioning that this was as far as she would go.

"About what you said..." Johanna said hesitantly. "Is it true that you never knew your family?"

Ichabod wavered before answering. "I knew them. But not in the way I wanted to with my father. And not long enough with my mother." The mere memory of it drove a knife through his heart and even more guilt coursed through his veins. Was this how all those he interrogated felt?

Johanna's face darkened with forlorn. "Oh," she murmured disappointedly. "I was just wondering because...well, I never knew my real parents either."

Ichabod sucked in his breath. He knew who Johanna's parents were, he knew it fully well now after what Anthony told him.

But he didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

* * *

**My first idea on identifying that the ship was from Australia was scraped. At first, I wanted them to see an Australian flag. But the earliest flag that was designed was around 1823. That's not going to work with this particular time line I'm working with... **

**Want a dessert? Want it? Want it?! Review!  
**

**The menu is: treacle tart, pound cake, sponge cake, knickerbocker glory, sticky toffee pudding, Eton Mess, bread pudding, bananoffee pie, arctic roll, trifle, deep-fried Mars Bars, Toby's loaf of bread, tiramisu, zabaglione, canno****li, ****Génoise Cake,**** semifreddo, pignolata, crepe, Ichabod's pain au chocolat, French silk pie, lemon millefeuille, Gateau roll, eclair, macaron, ****canelé**, **tarte tatin, peach melba, Oeufs a la neige, and floating island!**

** I had fun writing this chapter. I dunno why, but I always enjoyed writing flashbacks...**

**The writing style in this chapter was somewhat influenced by The Shadow of the Wind, the best book in the world by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. I highly recommend it. It's dark, haunting, mysterious, twisting, scary, and full of doomed love.****  
**


	13. Doubt

**_Why the long face, boy?_**

Ichabod remained silent. He rested his forehead on his hands, closing his eyes to hide away London. He had come back to the city only fifteen minutes ago, and the first place he turned to was the deserted barber shop.

**_You're usually never this quiet._**

Ichabod gritted his teeth, wanting nothing more than for Sweeney's voice to just leave him alone. He was burdened with such guilt that he could barely move. His throat was caught up and his mouth felt extremely dry. The scene of yelling Anthony and the saddened Johanna, and about everyone else he questioned replayed over and over again in his head. He swallowed a scream of frustration.

**_Wos the ma'er, love? _**This was Mrs. Lovett's voice this time. Ichabod felt the swelling in his throat diminish and he swallowed.

"This was all a complete disaster," he croaked, pressing his palms onto his eyes. "I never noticed it till now, though."

**_Wot's a complete disas'er? _**Mrs. Lovett asked. **_Don't be frigh'ened love, you can tell me._**

"Can you...show yourself to me?" Ichabod asked tentatively, his head still cradled in his arms. "So I can see you and all...so I know I'm not going crazy and there's some plus in this trip."

An unidentified voice sighed before there was silent. Ichabod groaned. The two probably deserted him, leaving him to wallow in his doubt. He slowly lifted his head and gasped. Before him were two pale figures. A man and a woman, with dark hair and eyes. The woman smiled kindly at him, patting his arm. Her touch was lukewarm and barely palpable, but it was definitely there. The man leaned against the wall, his inky eyes studying Ichabod.

Ichabod opened his mouth, but no words came out. His heart thumped wildly as he immediately sat up straight, gripping tightly on the armrests of Sweeney's chair.

"You're...you really are..." Ichabod sputtered. Mrs. Lovett chuckled softly.

"We've done our end o' the promise. Now tell us. Why are you so sad?" asked Mrs. Lovett. "It feels so dreary when you're sad, s'pecially since you're always up an abou' all the time."

Ichabod chewed his lip. "Have you ever...made someone feel bad?"

Mrs. Lovett laughed. "Methinks we all did so once in our lives. Be specific, all righ'?"

"I think that...I've been demanding memories out of people, and practically _stealing _them. I feel that I'm making everyone relive the worst period in their life, and that..." His voice faltered. Mr. Todd frowned slightly.

"What made you suddenly think that?" he asked.

"Well..." Ichabod sighed, struggling to find the right words to say. "The people I talked to...they were so distressed when remembering what happened. I reduced a young woman to tears and made a man moan with pain. I felt terrible, forcing people to feel this way. I...I can't stop thinking about their misery."

Mr. Todd cocked his head, scrutinizing the constable. "You remind me of myself."

Ichabod furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"You're losing yourself in the past, just like I did. Except not only are you lost in the reaction of people you talked to, but a past that isn't yours."

Ichabod sighed mournfully. "That's what Anthony and Johanna said."

"Who?" Mr. Todd whirled around, his eyes blazing with an unknown fire. Ichabod swallowed nervously and licked his lips.

"I spoke to...Johanna and Anthony not too long ago," Ichabod explained. Immediately, Mr. Todd stiffened. "I lied to them...just so I could find out what happened. Mr. Todd, they were livid when they found out who I really was. Anthony was so terribly angry, and the ordeal...the recollection made Johanna cry. I don't want to make people cry, Mr. Todd."

Mr. Todd turned away, facing the window that he always stared out of so long ago. Ichabod couldn't see his face, but he knew Mr. Todd's features were pained. He immediately remembered what he discovered back in Le Havre: Johanna was Benjamin Barker's and Mr. Todd's daughter.

"Tell me, boy," Mr. Todd said quietly. "Johanna...was she as beautiful as her mother?"

Ichabod's mind wandered to the little portrait that he had taken an eternity ago. "Yes. Very lovely."

"Is she...well?"

"She was until I came," mumbled Ichabod.

There was an awkward silence. Ichabod bit his tongue, burrowing around in his mind to find the right words to say, or if he should say anything at all. Mrs. Lovett lightly rubbed Ichabod's back, her eyes glancing sadly at Mr. Todd.

_"And if you're beautiful what then, with yellow hair, like wheat...I think we shall not meet again, my little dove, my sweet Johanna..."_ Mr. Todd sang so softly it was like a butterfly in the wind. His voice shook with tears and he trembled, clutching the windowsill so tightly till his knuckles grew sallow. Ichabod felt that familiar lump in his throat swell again. He even made spirits feel worse.

Mrs. Lovett sighed sadly, brushing Ichabod's dark hair out of his eyes. Mr. Todd rested his forehead on the cold glass, staring at Ichabod's reflection. As morbid as it sounded, these two felt like friends to him. He finally felt at peace when he spoke to the two.

"So wot are ya goin' t' do, love?" Mrs. Lovett sighed. "We all make people feel bad, you can't 'elp it."

"I know but..." Ichabod moaned and cradled his head. "I feel so guilty, I don't know what to do..."

"So ya plannin' t' quit an' go 'ome? Please don't, if ya do, all I 'ave t' talk t' is Mr. T," quipped Mrs. Lovett. Her smile slowly slid off when Ichabod gazed at her with pained eyes.

"Why is it that you can only talk to me, anyways?" asked Ichabod, his voice hoarse. "Tobias told me that you never spoke to anyone till I came."

Mrs. Lovett froze, her eyes wide. Even Mr. Todd went frigid and gaped Ichabod's reflection. Ichabod cowered slightly at their intense stares, his palms growing sweaty. What did he just say?

Mrs. Lovett cleared her throat and swallowed. "You...you've been talkin' t' a boy named Toby?"

Ichabod hesitated before nodding. Mrs. Lovett chewed her lip tensely, her face taut with unease. Her eyes darted to Mr. Todd, who pointedly avoided her gaze. Ichabod frowned at her reaction and opened his mouth to talk, but was immediately interrupted.

"Ya didn't 'ave your mother for a long time, did ya?" Mrs. Lovett suddenly asked. Ichabod raised his eyebrows, puzzled by the question. He nodded slowly, studying Mrs. Lovett warily.

"How did you know?" he asked.

Mrs. Lovett sighed, resting on top of a large trunk. "Your eyes tell a lot o' stories, dearie. They 'ad the same look as me boy...the same sad and empty eyes..."

Ichabod bashfully glanced down, avoiding eye contact with the two. Ghosts were rather knowledgeable than he expected.

"Can't you tell me who your assistant is?" Ichabod pleaded. "So I won't hurt as many people?"

Mrs. Lovett stubbornly shook her head. "O' course not. You've got t' find tha' out yourself."

"Then what good are you two?" Ichabod snapped furiously, jumping to his feet. Mrs. Lovett became rigid. "If you two aren't going to even give me a single clue or anything, then it's best if you all just leave!"

"Lower your voice, won't you?" growled Mr. Todd. "People would think you're daft, yelling in the haunted barber shop."

"They already do," Ichabod responded bitterly.

"Answers aren't going to be offered to you on a silver platter, boy. You're going to have to work hard to get them."

Ichabod laughed coldly, leaning on the musty wall. "I know that fully well, Mr. Todd," he sighed, closing his eyes. "But it doesn't mean I can't be wishing for help from time to time." He stretched his arms, his eyes still closed.

"Wot are ya goin' t' do after ya find out the truth?" Mrs. Lovett asked. "Jail 'em? Condemn 'em t' death?"

"My job is to simply find out what happened and report it. Whether or not the criminal is alive or will be punished is beyond my reckoning. Though I believe that the true suspect is Mr. Todd, who committed all the crimes in the first place, though I don't...know why..." Ichabod's eyes suddenly opened and he rushed to the vanity. He swiped his notebook from the table and forcefully flew through the pages.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Todd asked suspiciously. Ichabod fished out his pen from his pocket and scribbled untidily on the crumpled paper. Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd curiously peeped over Ichabod's shoulder. Ink was flying everywhere, dotting the already messy notebook.

"Wot are ya writin', love?" Mrs. Lovett asked.

_Sweeney Todd (BENJAMIN BARKER) seen cradling (maybe) BEGGAR WOMAN (Lucy Barker)_

_Johanna: Adopted by JUDGE TURPIN.Old man says she disappeared. MR. SAMUELS says she ran off with sailor boy to BRIGHTON and joined the FLYING POODLE (?)_

_Sailor Boy: The one who brought SWEENEY to London ten years ago (aNTHONY). Ran off with JOHANNA and joined ship._

_Mrs. Lovett's assistant: PIRELLI'S old apprentice, from the factory. _

_Why would Lucy poison herself? (pain of losing Ben?)_

_SWEENEY TODD ESCAPES HARD LABOR IN AUSTRALIA. FOUND BY ANTHONY AND BROUGHT TO LONDON__. SOUGHT REVENGE AGAINST JUDGE. _

Mrs. Lovett tilted her head, a sad smile plastered on her features. "Ya figured all tha' out by yourself, darlin'?"

"Mr. Todd, please tell me this is all true, because if it isn't, someone's bound to be lying to me," Ichabod said rapidly. "I mean, it all fits, right? Benjamin Barker was sent away by the Judge Turpin fellow to Australia, and then fifteen years later he comes back as Sweeney Todd!"

Mr. Todd sighed ruefully and turned away from Ichabod. "Yes, boy. You're right."

Ichabod had the strong urge to jump up and shout with joy, but fought the temptation down. Still, there was something missing.

"Then why did you kill all those other people, Mr. Todd?" Ichabod asked. "What did they do to you?"

Mr. Todd chuckled distantly. "I was thirsting so, so terribly for the Judge's blood that I needed other people to quench it. All the slaughtering and bloodshed was like a game to me that didn't count as real until I killed the Judge. I didn't care who I killed before the Judge except one..." Mr. Todd's voice cracked at the end and wavered slightly. Ichabod suddenly remembered what Mr. Samuels said long ago, about Sweeney Todd embracing Lucy...

"You killed Lucy with your own blade, didn't you?" Ichabod whispered. "But you...didn't realize it. Not until later. That's why you were holding her, wasn't it?"

Sweeney clenched his fists, his body shuddering with an unidentified emotion. "Yes," he hissed, gritting his teeth. "I killed Lucy. I killed her without a second thought. I didn't even heed who she was, but it's too late..." He shook his head, running his finger through his black hair.

"But..." Ichabod mumbled. "What about Mrs. Lovett?" He turned to the baker, who bit her lip anxiously. "How did you end up...in the oven? I don't think I'll ever be able to figure out why from second-hand witnesses."

Mrs. Lovett heaved a sigh, twirling her unruly hair with her fingers. "S'all really complica'ed, dearie. You won't need t' know. No one cares abou' ol' Mrs. Lovett." She smiled sorrowfully.

"I do, though," Ichabod replied, gazing at Mrs. Lovett with such wide eyes that Mrs. Lovett thought he was like a curious, innocent child. "I want to know what happened."

Mrs. Lovett glimpsed at Mr. Todd, who looked away. She wetted her lips and beckoned Ichabod to come closer. Ichabod obeyed and sat next to Mrs. Lovett on the cold trunk. She ran her cold hand through Ichabod's dark hair, her eyes sparkling with sadness.

"Ya see...when Mr. T came back, 'e wanted t' know wot 'appened t' 'is wife and child. I wos afraid 'e'd get upset t' know tha' she wos loony after drinkin' the arsenic, so I jus' told 'im she poisoned 'erself. Needless t' say, 'e believed 'er dead...as anyone would," she added quickly when Mr. T jerked with irritation. "I'm not sayin' 'e wos stupid or anythin', but I ne'er said she died..."

"And then he found out after he uh...you know..." Ichabod concluded, glancing apprehensively at Mr. Todd. Mrs. Lovett nodded solemnly.

"'E wos devastated, o' course, and when 'e realized I didn't tell 'im the whole truth...well, ya can figure out the rest," Mrs. Lovett finished, stroking Ichabod's pale face. She smiled slightly. "Ya know, ya look a lot like 'ow Mr. T did."

"I beg your pardon?" Ichabod said hurriedly. Even Mrs. Lovett saw a similarity between him and the silent barber?

"Ya 'eard me perfectly," Mrs. Lovett said. She patted him on the head and a cold shiver ran down Ichabod's spine. Her touch was not unlike his deceased mother's.

"Maybe it's time for you to go on with your searching," Mr. Todd suddenly suggested. Ichabod nodded somberly before rising to his feet, stowing his notebook into the trunk for safe measures. Carrying around in his jacket was rather irksome. He headed towards the door before Mr. Todd suddenly stopped him.

"The next thing you will find out baffle you," Mr. Todd said. "But if you were less clever before, you would have figured that part out already."

"What?" Ichabod asked bewilderedly, turning to face the two. They were already gone.

**Oh dear, it's almost the end. I'm gonna miss this story when it ends. Another bird leaves the nest...**

**Did you know that every time you don't review, a hot singing barber AND smoking hot constable die?**

* * *


	14. The Factory

At first, Ichabod had believed that finding out about the apprentice would be easy. He was downright wrong. Ichabod had spent the whole day barging into various factories and demanding if any child around eleven to ten years ago was taken in by a certain Pirelli. Needless to say, all the answers he got was a solid, indifferent No.

Ichabod dragged his tired feet to another factory that spat smoke into the air. How many factories were in London, anyways? Surely one city could only have so many. He jadedly heaved the door open and gagged. The air smelled musty and sour with sweat that choked Ichabod. The air was gray and ashy, and absolutely frigid compared to the dull and balmy weather outside. Pallid skeletons staggered to the menacing machines, their skin blistered and torn and their hair slick with grime. Ichabod realized with a jolt that some were missing fingers while others had their limbs badly mangled. He gulped and felt somewhat lightheaded at the sight.

He stumbled to what he supposed was the office. It was a cramped and jumbled office, with papers askew and leather-bound books scattered carelessly. Ichabod noticed he was not alone in this disorderly room. There was a little girl, barely older than his own child, who was rocking and sobbing. She clutched her tiny bandaged hand, which was as red as her hair. Ichabod blanched when he realized that her forefinger was absent.

"Send her away," drawled an ornery man. Another person, who Ichabod expected was the Doctor, gave a curt nod and shooed the weeping girl away. The man sitting at his desk shook his head and sighed as the two left.

"Clumsy whelps," he muttered, sucking on a slobbery pipe. "Always makin' mistakes. This'll prove poorly for the factory."

Ichabod felt a surge of indignance towards the uncaring man. How can he be so indifferent to little children? The man didn't even notice Ichabod standing at the doorway. He continued licking his pipe and dipping stale cookies into his watery tea. His auburn wispy hair was combed over a bald spot, as if attempting (and failing) to hide the fact that he was aging. Ichabod cleared his throat and the man looked up.

"What are ye doing here?" growled the man, his voice thick with nicotine. "Don't come in here without permission, boy. Now get back to those machines!"

"Excuse me," Ichabod said coolly. "I'm not part of your factory. I'm a police constable."

The man immediately straightened, whipping the pipe out of his puckered mouth and hastily flattening his wrinkled suit. "M'sorry, constable," he grunted. "But I gotta keep a firm hand over the factory, right?"

"As you wish," Ichabod muttered.

"Well...sit down," ordered the man. Ichabod nodded before stiffly seating himself on a wobbly wooden chair. The man nestled in his chintz chair and rapped his stubby fingers on the desk.

"The name's Garrow. What brings you here?"

"I am investigating a case related to Fleet Street and was wondering if you could help me," Ichabod said shortly.

Garrow shrugged. "Help can cost a lot, Mr. Constable sir." He rubbed his hammy hands together greedily. Ichabod merely cocked one eyebrow.

"Mr. Garrow, I am not intending to pay you for anything, if that is what you're suggesting," he said coldly. "May I remind you that your taxes were not up to date..."

So the last part was a downright lie. Ichabod wasn't in the mood to give money to some miserly old bloke who could care less about the welfare of little children. Luckily, what Ichabod fibbed about was most likely the truth, because Garrow fidgeted uncomfortably in his faded armchair and twiddled his ruddy thumbs.

"Ah...um...well...what was it that you needed?" muttered Garrow sheepishly. Ichabod smirked inwardly with victory before continuing.

"I was hoping that you could tell me who was the boy who got taken in by the barber Pirelli eleven or so years ago."

Garrow furrowed his thin eyebrows. "Eleven years ago? Boy, I only been here for five."

Ichabod's heart dropped all the way to the bottom of his soles. "Do you have a record that lists the workers' whereabouts?"

Garrow tapped a finger on his flabby chin, squinting. "Now that ya mention it...I do think there is a record of that somewhere..." Garrow hesitated before reluctantly peeling himself off of the comfortable chair. He waddled towards the cluttered bookshelf, blearily discarding books aside. One bulky tome nearly hit Ichabod's head.

"Here it is," declared Garrow, toddling back to the refuge of his chair. In his hands was a grubby leather-bound book covered in a film of dust. He slammed it onto the desk, sending clouds of dust flying everywhere. Ichabod waved the specs of dust aside and fought down the urge to sneeze as Garrow flipped ferociously through the pages. The pages were wrinkled with chicken scratches scrawled messily on the lines. Various names were jotted down, some had other information on it. For example:

_Charles Pail- taken as an apprentice to William the chocolatier_

Others weren't as cheerful..._  
_

_Frederick Benson- fired (broke rule 21)_

_Loretta Benson- fired (husband broke rule 21)_

_Eleanor Benson -fired (father broke rule 21)_

Ichabod frowned at the reason. Just because their husband or father broke a rule, Eleanor and Loretta were sacked? That sounded utterly unfair. Garrow spotted Ichabod scowling at the names and hurriedly flipped over the page.

"Gotta keep a firm hand over the factory," he muttered. "Like they say...apples don't fall far from the tree...can't have any more troublemakers running about..."

Ichabod swallowed down a sour retort. Insulting a man who was helping him would prove rather ill. Ichabod's eyes quickly scanned the other names before the leaves were turned. Thirteen-year-old Eliza Dawson was killed when a machine snagged her dressed and churned her to mush. Thirty-three year old Adam Oldman lost his whole left arm. Ichabod grimaced at the gruesome fate and wondered if he should report these horrors to London's Parliament.

"What's a boy taken in by Pirelli got to do with a case with Fleet Street?" inquired Garrow curiously.

"That is none of your concern," Ichabod replied serenely. Garrow glowered at the younger man before vigorously swiping through the pages, nearly ripping the paper. Ichabod yawned and stifled a hacking cough after inhaling the sour and fusty air.

"What was the barber's name again? Pineri?" grumbled Garrow.

"Pirelli," corrected Ichabod. Garrow squinted his eyes and shoved a crooked pair of spectacles up his nose, peering at the page carefully.

"Here we are!" Garrow exclaimed. Ichabod nearly fell out of his seat in thrill. He swiftly yanked the book out of Garrow's clutches and gaped at the miniscule name that Garrow was pointing to. His stomach churned violently and the little color in Ichabod's face drained out.

_Tobias Ragg- taken by Adolfo Pirelli as an assistant._

Ichabod felt his mouth suddenly dry. He struggled to cough out words, but none came out.

"You're...you're sure this is him?" he managed to choke out.

Garrow shrugged. "How am I supposed to know? I told ye already, I only been here for five years."

Garrow's voice was completely muted. Tobias Ragg? As in, the Tobias that he had been talking to and confiding to all this time? So many incredulous thoughts swarmed in Ichabod's mind as he shakily sat down. He should have known: why else would Ragg be so insulted when Ichabod called Mrs. Lovett a 'derogatory name', and screamed how it was unfair that Ichabod could speak to Toby's former mother?

"I heard he got picked up by some old murdering baker ten years ago," mumbled Garrow, oblivious to Ichabod's abrupt reaction. "Strange rumors goin' on. Supposedly a barber and a baker teamed up and started killing everyone, then the barber's dead and the woman and Ragg disappear. I'm guessin' they did most of the killing. Yeah, Ragg's gone and probably dead. No one ever saw that runt again."

Ichabod jerked slightly before immediately rising from his seat. "I'd like to thank you, Mr. Garrow, for the information, but I must be leaving now."

"Already?" yawned Garrow. Ichabod could only nod. Garrow shrugged and shoved the book aside, not even reacting when it crashed onto the floor with a deafening bang. Ichabod didn't bother waiting to be bid farewell. He stiffly exited the factory, maintaining a calm composure till he turned the corner.

"Tobias Ragg?" Ichabod gasped, aghast. He couldn't believe any of it. So a piece of the puzzle, an actual witness to Sweeney Todd, was the one that he kept running into _the whole time?_ There's got to be a mistake! And what did Garrow mean when he said that Toby was probably dead and never seen again? Toby had been wandering around London from the beginning! How could London stand it when Toby slipped unnoticed from their gazes, mocking them?

Thousands of memories of Toby just _slightly_ hinting that he was related to the case rushed by in Ichabod's mind. And Mrs. Lovett's discomfort when Ichabod mentioned him! It all made sense now! How could Ichabod be so _stupid_? Toby must've been fond of Mrs. Lovett, since he was livid when Ichabod called her a devil baker. And after Mr. Todd died...

Ichabod suddenly shouted with shock and almost tripped over his own feet.

Tobias disappeared when everyone died...

Tobias was fond of Mrs. Lovett...

And if he knew Mr. Todd killed Mrs. Lovett...

Ichabod darted towards Fleet Street, with only one thought repeating in his mind.

**Boy am I going to have fun typing the next chapter...**

**Anyone catch my Willy Wonka reference?!**

**Did you know that every time you don't review, a poor little girl from the factory gets her fingers cut off? **

* * *


	15. Lies and Confrontations

Ichabod slammed the door of the pie shoppe behind him. Dust billowed and hung in the air before floating back to the ground. Ichabod whirled around, afraid of any eavesdroppers. He needed Sweeney Todd _now_, to assure himself that it really was Toby who killed Mr. Todd. What if he was actually wrong and Toby was sent to Australia or wherever under a false charge? He didn't want to pull a Judge Turpin on anyone.

"Mr. Todd!" Ichabod yelled. "Mrs. Lovett!"

His voice echoed in the pie shoppe. Ichabod frowned nervously. Where were they? He glanced inside Mrs. Lovett's parlor, half expecting her and the barber to be lounging lazily before the fire. It was cold and desolate. Where were they?

"Wot is it, dearie?" Mrs. Lovett's voice asked him. Ichabod whirled around and yelped with surprise, jumping back. Mrs. Lovett descended the stairs that led to Mr. Todd's barber shop, her eyes anxiously darting towards the ceiling. A dull and muffled scrape sounded above Ichabod's head, like a foot grazing the floor.

"Mrs. Lovett, where's Mr. Todd?" Ichabod asked.

""E's not 'ere, love," Mrs. Lovett said, twiddling her fingers. "'E went t' visit 'is Johanna, t' see 'ow she is. Don't ma'er, anyways, s'not like she can see 'im."

"He's not here?" Ichabod repeated, crestfallen. "But I needed him to confirm something! I think I know what happened that night!"

"Y-ya did?" Mrs. Lovett asked, backing away. Ichabod furrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Mrs. Lovett, is something wrong?"

"Wrong? 'Course not, nothin' can be wrong. Wot can 'appen t' a dead person like me?" Mrs. Lovett laughed weakly. Ichabod took a step closer and Mrs. Lovett froze, her hands gripping the stair banisters tightly.

"Is someone up there?" Ichabod questioned.

"No," Mrs. Lovett answered quickly. "Just me lonely self."

"I heard something up there," Ichabod said, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe Mr. Todd is back from his little trip..."

"Mus' be some filthy lil' mice runnin' abou', ya know," Mrs. Lovett said faintly. "This 'ouse is in the worst condition an' all, so-'ey!"

Ichabod suddenly ducked under Mrs. Lovett's arm and bounded up the stairs. Mrs. Lovett yelped and grabbed for him, but Ichabod deftly eluded her grasp. He clambered up into the barber shop.

"Tobias?"

Toby froze. He was crouched near the heavy trunk, clutching Ichabod's tattered notebook. Ichabod approached Toby slowly, uncertain of what the young lad was going to do.

"What are you doing?" Ichabod demanded. Toby slowly set down the notebook, his dark eyes staring warily at Ichabod.

"Jus' checkin' on your progress," muttered Toby, shoving his fists into the pockets of his overlarge coat.

"I'm sure it would be much easier to ask me in person," Ichabod said coldly, stowing the notebook away. "How did you know it was in here anyways?"

Toby didn't answer. His cold and apathetic stare froze Ichabod's blood.

"Where were ya?" Toby grumbled. "Off diggin' in other people's memories?"

Ichabod ignored the dull blow. "What else would I do?" he answered coolly.

"Ya shouldn't," growled Toby. "S'not your place to go around stealin' other people's recollections. Ya shouldn't pry into other people's past."

Suddenly, a crude ploy sprouted in Ichabod's mind. He braced himself, backing away slightly in case the plot angered Toby more than he expected...

"You're not just referring to other people's past, are you, Ragg?" Ichabod said frigidly. "It's your own past, and your own memories you're talking about!"

Toby's dark eyes widened, and his fists clenched inside his pockets. "Wot did you say?"

"You know fully well what I'm talking about, Master Ragg," Ichabod replied. He took in a deep breath. "You've been protecting someone, haven't you? Trying to cover them up for the crime they committed. It was Mrs. Lovett who killed everyone, wasn't it? Why else would the victims be in her pies?" Ichabod's voice grew louder and fiercer at every syllable. "And Mrs. Lovett was the one who killed Sweeney Todd that night! Then she ran off like a coward to avoid the police, didn't she? It was all her fault, she's the murderer, she's the monster and a coward-"

Before Ichabod knew it, Toby struck him. Ichabod stumbled back, his hollow cheek smarting terribly before he was suddenly shoved against the wall. Toby dug his nails into Ichabod's neck and whipped out a silver blade that was peculiarly similar to Mr. Todd's blades. Ichabod gaped at the blade that was inches away from his neck. The silver was already stained with a dark crust. He held his breath, fearing that if he breathed the metal knife would slice his neck. 

"Don't ya e'er say tha'," Toby growled, poising the blade threateningly at Ichabod's throat. "Don't ya e'er say tha' it wos Mrs. Lovett who did it! Mrs. Lovett didn't kill anyone! Mr. Todd killed everyone, and _I_ killed _'im_! I wos the one who did it, not Mrs. Lovett! Don't you dare, don't you _dare_ blame 'er!"

Toby suddenly froze, realizing what he had revealed. The barber knife slipped from his fingers as he stumbled back. Ichabod slid to the ground, his cheek and neck still throbbing with pain. Toby gawked at Ichabod, his entire small body shuddering. Ichabod wordlessly climbed onto his feet, gently plucking the blade from the ground.

"Ya knew it wos me all along, didn't ya?" Toby said gravelly, his voice low and quaking. "Ya knew, but ya jus' wanted t' make sure...ain't tha' righ'?"

Ichabod nodded, still unable to find his voice. He scratched the brownish crust from the blade and rubbed it against his thumb and forefinger. Blood.

"Where'd you get this?" Ichabod asked quietly. Toby didn't answer. He clutched the archaic barber chair for support, breathing heavily. 

"Where else?" Toby growled. "Tha's the same blade tha' took Mr. T's life. Must 'ave slipped out o' the police's pocket when they went down the sewer lookin' for me..."

Ichabod didn't bother asking why Toby kept it all these years. Toby turned away, trembling.

"I 'ad t' kill 'im," Toby whispered, his voice shivering uncontrollably. "'E killed 'er. 'E killed Mrs. Lovett. E'en if I 'ated 'er back then for lyin' t' me and wantin' Mr. T t' kill me...I couldn't let Mr. T get away with killin' 'er...I 'ad to..." 

Toby slowly turned to Ichabod, his shadowy eyes wet. "Are ya goin' t' turn me in?"

Ichabod wetted his lips but didn't respond. He knew that the governor back in New York ordered him to report his findings to England's Parliament. He jerked a stiff nod. Toby's grip on the barber chair tightened. 

"Wot would the sentence be?"

"Nothing too terrible, I hope," Ichabod spoke, his voice cracked and dry. "You were only a child back then...and it's been ten years. Surely the Parliament would be easier..."

"Ya talkin' abou' the same Parliament tha' sent Mr. Barker t' Australia for no apparent reason," Toby pointed out dryly. "I read tha' part in ya notes." 

Ichabod had no choice but to agree. He needed to get back home with the job finished, but he couldn't bear throwing Toby to the merciless clutches of the government.

"I could blame Mrs. Lovett," he suggested quietly. "Say it was her, but then...committed suicide and jumped in the oven...then she doesn't get punished because she's...and you don't get punished either."

Toby stiffened and quickly shook his head. "No," he said coldly. "I'd rather be condemned t' the gallows than spread untrue lies abou' Mrs. Lovett."

Toby was much too chivalrous.

"I can help you escape," Ichabod said. "You can run off to another city or country. They can't hunt you down that easily."

"I've ran away too many times," Toby growled. "Why are you 'elpin' me anyways? For all ya know, I could easily slit ya throat righ' now t' avoid all the 'assle. I've done it before. I can assure you, it ain't difficult."

Ichabod gulped but regained his serene composure. "I want to help you because I don't think you deserve to be cruelly punished. The Parliament could send you to Australia for something that happened ten years ago." He raised an eyebrow. "Would you really kill me?"

Toby's mouth opened, but he hesitated and closed it again. "No," he admitted, his voice quivering. "I can't kill anymore. I can't." He stared at the floor, his bony fists clenched. The young man who grew up too quickly was the small little boy again, shuddering terribly. The same ten-year-old orphan who lost the ability to cry so long ago let one traitorous tear slide down his cheek.

"So...wot do ya propose we should do?" he finally whispered. Ichabod closed his eyes in concentration as feeble ideas weaved into a strategy inside his head.

"I might have a plan."

* * *


	16. Surrender to the Gallows

"Do ya think it'll really work?"

"I think so," Ichabod said doggedly. Of course, thoughts and reality were two completely different matters, though not everyone could grasp that. The mind is a prominent liar.

"Why can't you tell the beak back in New York tha' you couldn't find ou' who done it?" Toby mumbled as he and Ichabod discreetly slipped out of the barber shop.

"What do you mean by 'beak'?" Ichabod asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"A beak's a magistrate, o' course" explained Toby scornfully.

"I don't use such slang, thank you very much. And about telling the 'beak' that I failed…well...I'm not sure if that'll work…" admitted Ichabod. Ever since Sleepy Hollow, the magistrate had kept a wary eye out for Ichabod. He never did believe what Ichabod said about headless corpses hacking people's skulls off. It was an unspoken fact that Ichabod was on probation, even after ten years. "If I don't figure this one out, I might get fired, and my wife and child..." His voice faltered and Ichabod didn't continue, but Toby understood. Toby always understood things that weren't mentioned.

"All right," Ichabod said. "In two days, my ship heading back to America is supposed to leave. On that very day at noon, you'll hide yourself near the docks. Make sure no one sees you. Then, I'll go and report it to the magistrate of London. He'll write the note to inform my superior I've done my job and will most likely try to arrest you. Then we'll both leave and head to New York. I hope you're remembering this because I won't repeat myself again."

"Ya didn't need t'. I got it all the firs' time," muttered Toby. "Should I bring somethin' with me?"

"I'm afraid if you do, it'll make people suspicious. Besides, it'll be harder for you to hide with a bag of possessions with you," Ichabod replied. "Does the police force know who you are?"

Toby laughed harshly. "No one knows or cares who I am."

"I mean, do they know your name? Or are you using an alias?"

"There's too many Tobys around 'ere, I don't need an alias. 'Sides, no one e'er knew me name even before all the killin'…" Toby's voice trailed away and he quieted. "'Course, there wos this time when I 'ad t' go t' prison for a month or so because I wos accused o' threa'enin' t' kill some ol' codger...M'sure the magistrate knows who I am."

Ichabod gawked at Toby for a moment before regaining his poise. Toby was proving much more dangerous than he had assumed.

"So…" Toby started slowly. "I'm gonna be leavin' London then? Forever?"

"Well, I wouldn't recommend you coming back for a visit anytime soon…" Ichabod murmured. Toby managed a weak smile.

"I guess it isn't like I'm not used t' it...after killin' Mr. T, I ran off t' who knows where. I didn't even know where I wos for the five years I lived there..." Toby stopped dead on his tracks, staring at the cobblestone sidewalk with misty eyes. "I thought tha' if I stayed long enough, all the bad things would go away. I was naïve, 'opin' tha' everythin' would just leave withou' a trace like some nigh'mare. I couldn't stay away though…I missed 'er too much."

Ichabod assumed that 'she' was Mrs. Lovett. Toby suddenly laughed coldly, his voice as frigid as ice. Ichabod, startled, stepped back warily.

"Funny, isn't it," Toby muttered, his eyes glinting like the murderous barber blades that was still stowed away in his pocket. "All this time, I wos doin' fine. For once, I felt tha' all those bad times were gone an' away. Then you come along and then dump all those bad mem'ries back int' me 'ead!" Toby chortled again, his laughter sardonic and distant. Ichabod bit his cheek apprehensively, vaguely wondering if Toby had suddenly gone mad.

"I've got t' go, then, Constable Crane," Toby finally said after his outburst of mirth. Ichabod, stunned from Toby's sudden recovery, nodded.

"Remember," Ichabod said. "This Sunday, when time strikes noon, you discreetly hide yourself in the docks. Don't come out till I call for you."

"'Ow are ya goin' t' call me if ya can't use me name? Obviously if ya do, then people _migh'_ get a lil' suspicious."

"All right, all right, just keep an eye out for me," Ichabod said crossly. "Call my name or something related to that matter, all right?" Toby nodded solemnly.

"And if I ge' caugh'?"

"At least then the nightmares won't haunt you anymore."

* * *

Ichabod stood before the House of Parliament, taking in deep breaths. He hadn't the chance to check of Toby did manage to hide himself at the dock, and he hoped that the young man did. He doubted that Mrs. Lovett would ever forgive him if one little fluke in their impromptu plan guaranteed Toby's death. The last thing Ichabod needed was the anger of an undead hallucination.

He guardedly crept into the palatial building, his heart thumping wildly. He made his way through the jumble of England's aristocrats, searching for the Magistrate. He fingered his dog-eared notebook nervously as he shoved open the teak doors. His eyes darted to a mosaic clock hanging on the ornate walls. Exactly noon.

The Magistrate was a very tall fellow with elfish features. He shuffled a pile of documents, not acknowledging Ichabod's presence. His goldish eyes scanned the rearranging papers as his long fingers seemed to caress every leaf. Ichabod licked his teeth tensely before clearing his throat.

"Yes?" the Magistrate drawled, his voice like a flowing stream. His eyes flickered towards Ichabod before returning his attention to the jumbled documents. "Ah, the constable from America. How may I help you?"

"I figured out the mystery of Sweeney Todd, sir," Ichabod answered tranquilly. A glint of interest flashed in the Magistrate's eyes as he halted rearranging his papers.

"Are you truly positive?" the Magistrate inquired.

"Truly," said Ichabod. He hesitated before approaching the Magistrate's desk, opening his notebook to his notes. "I've interviewed many people, from sailors to police constables. They told me that before Sweeney Todd came, there was a Benjamin Barker who was wrongly accused of a crime and sent away to Australia by Judge Turpin, who lusted for his wife. Exactly fifteen years later, a sailor boy finds Sweeney Todd lost in the ocean after his ship, which was leaving Australia, was destroyed, and he brought the man to London. And then we skip all the killing frenzy to find Sweeney Todd dead, clutching Lucy Barker, along with the corpses of Mr. Bamford and the Judge Turpin, while Mrs. Lovett burned to death in the oven."

"Are you telling me that you think Sweeney Todd was actually Benjamin Barker?" the Magistrate said.

"Precisely," Ichabod answered. "Why else would the man murder so many people and end up dead holding Barker's wife?"

"This is all very well, but why would Sweeney Todd be dead, his own blade thrust into his throat?" the Magistrate pointed out.

"Ah..." Ichabod wetted his lips and took a deep breath. "I was just about to mention that. You see, Mrs. Lovett long ago had adopted a young boy who worked for Pirelli, who was killed by Mr. Todd. When witnessing the murder of his dear Mrs. Lovett, Tobias Ragg murdered Sweeney Todd with the barber knife."

"Tobias Ragg?" the Magistrate repeated incredulously. "The young blacksmith on Harker Road?"

"Indeed," said Ichabod. "He is the one who murdered the murderer."

The Magistrate stroked his smooth chin. "Have you any proof? Where'd you find this out?"

Obviously Ichabod couldn't inform the Magistrate about the ghosts (or hallucinations) or Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett. "I've interrogated enough people to put two and two together, sir, and Ragg himself inadvertently informed me so."

The Magistrate eyed Ichabod for a moment before turning to another younger police in the room, who was listening intently to Ichabod. "Get the constable and have him come. I have a duty for him."

The young man nodded so deeply it was almost a bow before disappearing. Ichabod scuffed his feet apprehensively on the carpeted floor, glancing at the window. The docks were right outside.

It wasn't long after London's constable strode in. A stubby cigar protruded from his mouth, wagging like a dog's tail when he smacked his lips for no apparent reason.

"What's the duty, sir?" slurred the man. Ichabod would've mistaken him as a drunk if his eyes weren't focused or if he didn't walk in a straight line.

"We have a murderer in our midst, Constable Larson," announced the Magistrate. Mr. Larson's cigar nearly toppled out of his aghast mouth in surprise. "It appears that Constable Crane has solved the mystery of Sweeney Todd and tells us that there's still a killer running loose."

"_Him_?" cried Constable Larson incredulously. "How can he figure it out? He's been here for less than a month, and all the witnesses are dead! Dead men tell no tales."

"You'd be surprised if you listened hard enough," muttered Ichabod, his mind wandering to Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett.

"So who is this killer? I'm assuming this person's the one who murdered Mr. Todd," said Constable Larson impatiently.

"Ah yes, don't get edgy on us, Constable Larson," said the Magistrate. "His name's Tobias Ragg of Harker Road. I suppose you remember him? The precise one who threatened to slit Mr. Llewyn and Mrs. Davies' throats?"

"The same bleeder," grumbled Constable Larson. "He was the one who killed Mr. Todd?"

The Magistrate nodded. "Get your men to arrest him. Bring him over and we'll have a trial."

Ichabod gritted his teeth. "Why punish the boy, though? Don't you think he was doing London a favor? If it weren't for him, more men would've been murdered."

The Magistrate frowned at Ichabod. "A police defending a criminal? That's unheard of." He stood up, straightening his velvet coat and readjusting his powdered wig. "Here in London, Constable Crane, we want to make sure that our people are safe and that _no_ murderers lurk anywhere. When one murders, the urge for blood is like a drug. You can't get enough of it, so we must rid those people to keep our people happy and safe. Perhaps things back in New York are run differently."

Ichabod bit his tongue. The Magistrate, sensing no snappy comebacks from Ichabod, nodded to Constable Larson to proceed. The man nodded before darting away. Ichabod glanced at the clock. Quarter past twelve. The ship heading home left in five minutes.

"Ah yes, I should sign a document to inform the Magistrate back in New York, correct?" the Magistrate sighed, scribbling his ineligible signature onto the sheet before handing it to Ichabod. Ichabod nodded and stiffly received the sheet before swiftly sprinting out of the House of Parliament.

He scampered onto the docks, breathing heavily and clutching a stitch on his side. Though the docks were easily visible from the Magistrate's window, it was much farther than expected. Unease boiled inside Ichabod as he frantically searched for Toby. What if the police already got a hold of him? Ichabod swallowed before peeking inside a nearby barrel. Nothing.

"Maybe he already boarded the ship," Ichabod murmured to himself, catching a glimpse of the vast ship. He crept on board, scanning the deck for the scrawny lad. Ichabod felt hot sweat prick the back of his neck as he hurried to find Toby.

"Constable?" Ichabod whirled around, nearly toppling to the ground. Toby was behind him on the walkway that people used to get on the ship. Ichabod breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ragg! You had me frightened," Ichabod said. "For a moment I thought the police force already captured you."

Toby said nothing. He only stared up at Ichabod, his eyes glazed with an unknown emotion.

"Come on, get onto the ship," urged Ichabod. "They're bound to look around here, and the ship's about to depart-"

"I'm not going," Toby said coldly, his voice trembling slightly. Ichabod's eyes widened and he nearly stumbled.

"What do you mean?" Ichabod managed to say. "Tobias, they're going to kill you if you stay!"

"I don't care," declared Toby, his bony hands clenched into fists. "I'm not goin' t' run away again. I'm not a coward."

"This isn't about cowardice!" Ichabod cried.

"I don't want t' leave," said Toby, backing away from Ichabod. "I don't mind dyin'. I'm goin' t' take tha' sentence tha' I deserve."

"Tobias, get on the boat," growled Ichabod warningly. The ship jerked suddenly, alerting its passengers that it was about to depart. Toby shook his head.

"I'm goin' t' stay, Constable. You go 'ome t' ya family. I'm goin' t' me own soon."

"Tobias-" Ichabod pleaded, but it was too late. The boat started to drift from the docks and the crewmen made to shut the door. Ichabod desperately yelled for Toby, but he only stood still on the walkway, his eyes gazing at Ichabod with a hard, stony stare.

Ichabod's last sight of Toby was him slowly turning away and ambling off the docks, prepared to surrender himself to the gallows.

**One chapter left...**

* * *


	17. Home

**This chapter**

**is dedicated**

**to all those**

**who stuck to this story**

**till the very end.**

* * *

Cold.

It was so terribly cold.

Toby leaned tiredly against the slimy stone wall of the cell. He could feel Death prowling around, hungering for his life. Toby sighed, his breath frail and weak. How much longer did he have to stay here? How much time did he have left? A week? A day? An hour? Time was chasing after Toby, determined to finally take him once and for all. Toby was indebted to time. He should have died ten years ago, as dead as Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd. Now he had to pay Time back with his life.

Toby closed his eyes, breathing in the sickly air. He had somewhat lied to Constable Crane back at the docks. He really didn't mind dying, but he didn't want to die at the gallows, to die a traitor's death. But he didn't have a choice. He breathed in deeply as the bitter desolateness flooded him. To die was awfully lonely.

_Speakin' o' the Constable, _Toby thought bitterly. _I wonder 'ow 'e's doin'..._

Toby knew he should be angry. Furious that because of the nosy Constable, he was condemned to death and rotting in this dark grave. He was doing fine for ten years until now. But he wasn't angered. He felt empty and cold inside without any grudge. Perhaps it was the fact that Toby felt he deserved this fate.

But he still remained indignant that it was Crane who conversed with Mrs. Lovett and not him. He had heard her familiar voice below in the pie shoppe that fateful day, the voice he was deprived of for so long. Toby clenched his fists furiously but slowly released them, feeling an empty comfort that he was going to join Mrs. Lovett soon anyways.

"My dear boy."

Toby's eyes immediately flipped open, darting around frantically. He couldn't see anything in the bleak darkness, but a form was molding from the shadows. Toby backed away, his thin back pressing against the clammy walls.

"My darlin' Toby," the voice murmured. Toby's eyes widened as the figure approached him. Even in the pitch darkness he could recognize her.

"Mrs. Lovett," Toby whispered. Mrs. Lovett gave a watery smile as she stroked Toby's thin face. Her touch was like sunlight; warm and soothing but barely palpable. Toby shakily clutched her hand, realizing with a jolt that she was there, and not a hallucination.

"How do I know you're real?" he breathed.

"You won't know," Mrs. Lovett sighed. Toby shrunk back, eying Mrs. Lovett with glazed eyes.

"'Ow come ya come now and not before?" Toby asked feebly. "Ya only talked t' the Constable all the time, but ne'er me."

"I tried speakin' t' ya, Toby," Mrs. Lovett insisted. "But ya couldn't 'ear me."

"And what abou' now?" Toby said slowly.

Mrs. Lovett didn't speak. She only stared at Toby with such mournful eyes that it frightened him. Mrs. Lovett knew Toby's time was coming. You had to be dying or linked with the dead in order to hear spirits speaking to you.

"I'm sorry for everythin', Toby," she sniveled, choking on tears. Toby immediately knew she was talking about how she locked him in the bakehouse and tried to have him killed. "I really am. I was jus' tryin' t' 'elp Mr. T...and the Parliament would 'ave both our 'eads if ya told..."

Toby stared at the molding floor, unable to look at Mrs. Lovett in the eye. Mrs. Lovett took Toby's small hand and gripped it tightly, as if trying to warm his icy skin.

"I forgave ya a long time ago, Mrs. Lovett," Toby said, his voice faint and fragile. Mrs. Lovett smiled as Toby clutched her hand, afraid that if he let go, she would disappear.

"What abou' Mr. T, Toby," she asked softly. "Do ya still 'ate 'im?"

Toby breathed deeply, finding each inhale harder than the last. "I do," he finally managed to say. He glanced warily at Mrs. Lovett. "Did _you_ forgive 'im?"

"Yes," Mrs. Lovett replied quietly.

"Why?" Toby exclaimed, his voice cracking. "'Ow can ya forgive someone who killed ya? Not only you, but a lot o' other people too!"

"I deserved it," Mrs. Lovett whispered. "I did somethin' terrible, Toby, and 'urt 'im badly...'e's changed after death, dearie, 'e's Benjamin Barker again...mos' o' the time."

Toby opened his mouth to demand what she was talking about, but all that came out was a wispy wheeze. Toby felt his heart weakly hammer his chest, straining to escape the defeated body. He was dying and he knew it. His senses were dulled and his sight blurry. Mrs. Lovett's voice felt faraway and muffled. Toby knew that Time was impatient.

"What do you mean, Mrs. Lovett?" Toby whispered.

Mrs. Lovett wetted her lips. Toby was a barely alive. He was like a faded pearly shadow, threatening to vanish at any second. Life was already sifting from his grasp. Mrs. Lovett nuzzled her cheek against Toby's cool forehead.

"I'll explain everythin' t' ya la'er, Toby," Mrs. Lovett whispered. "Jus' rest now. Let go, it'll all be o'er before ya know it. It won't 'urt..." Her voice trembled as a lump swelled in her throat. "We'll be together again very soon Toby, I promise. Please, jus' let go, you won't be in pain anymore."

Toby struggled for a rasping breath. To die seemed so difficult and frightening. He could already feel his strength diminish at every breath he took. He blearily reached out for Mrs. Lovett, clutching her sleeve desperately.

"Mrs. Lovett?" he murmured, his voice as fragile as a glass thread. Mrs. Lovett scooted closer, sadness glazing her eyes.

"Yes, dearie?"

"If you forgive me, I'll forgive Mr. T," he murmured, slowly closing his eyes.

"What do you need t' be forgiven for?" Mrs. Lovett asked.

"For not protectin' ya," Toby sighed. "For lettin' ya die...M'sorry, ma'am...if you could forgive someone as wicked as me, I know I'll be able t' forgive Mr. T."

Tears streamed down Mrs. Lovett's face, but her voice remained steady. She pulled Toby into a loving embrace, rocking him and burying her face into his dark hair.

"O' course I forgive ya, Toby," she whispered. "I forgave ya a long, long time ago."

Her voice had dwindled into nothingness. Toby felt the warmth of Mrs. Lovett's touch slowly melt away as darkness enveloped him like a welcoming friend. The same hug where Toby first felt love and happiness was the same embrace where he faded away with a final quivering sigh, cold and crying. When the prison guards entered the cell, ready to drag the prisoner to the gallows, they found Toby's limp and pale body curled in the corner, a broken smile softening his frozen features. His cheeks were still stained with tears.

Everyone was convinced that Toby died unloved and alone, his soul doomed to rot in the dungeons. That wasn't true. His mother had carried him home.

* * *


End file.
